The San Lorenzo Job REDUX
by Ginipig
Summary: The San Lorenzo Job from Eliot's point of view. After the events of The Big Bang Job, Eliot wonders if he should move on from Leverage Consulting. As he returns to San Lorenzo for the first time in years, he remembers why he left Moreau and the one and a half times he saved General Flores, all while trying to keep the team alive and defeat Moreau once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

_Much to my chagrin, I do not own Leverage._

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Chapter 1

"General Flores, can you please tell my team what you were saying earlier about Moreau?" Eliot said, standing at ease.

"I have not been General for a long time ... Commander," General Juan Flores said, smiling.

A small smile crept to Eliot's lips. It was too bad that they only ever talked when it was something about Moreau. He missed Juan. But the General would never leave San Lorenzo — "They need me here," he'd say — and Eliot … Eliot could never go back.

"Moreau bankrolled Ribera's political career. Within a year, Ribera had bribed and _murdered _his way into the presidency. Anyone who opposes him is declared an enemy of the state. They are imprisoned, and by law, their assets are seized, their families bankrupted."

"This is why the General is in hiding. He's your candidate running against Ribera," Eliot told the team. He wished, for the umpteenth time, that the General would just once try to keep a low profile. But the man loved San Lorenzo too much for that.

"General," Nate said, "I understand you're taking quite a risk for yourself and your family by talking to us." He (_finally—show some respect, Nate_) stood up to address the General. "We certainly owe you a debt."

"No, I'm the one with the debt. Spencer saved my life … twice."

Eliot chuckled. "Once … and a half."

"How do you half save someone's life?" Parker asked.

Eliot paused, then decided to go ahead and tell his team. He brought the question on, after all. "Because I was the one sent to kill him, so I figure that only counts as a half. Right?" He smirked at the General, who smirked knowingly back.

"That actually makes sense," Hardison commented.

Eliot rolled his eyes at Hardison, but he smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he had made that joke. If anyone asked why, he would always tell them it was partly to tease the General, and partly to lighten the mood, which was true. The real reason he did it, though, was because he didn't think he deserved to be lauded. Not because he because he actually felt like it counted as half — that was the joke — but because he didn't think he should be honored at all for saving the General's life, since it was really the General that had saved his, a thousand times over.

He was snapped out of his reverie by thumping noises coming over the screen.

"What is it?" he asked with growing dread.

"I don't know …"

"General, is that a secure line?" he asked, fearing the worst.

Then the worst happened. He watched in helpless horror as the General was grabbed by armed men. _No …_

"I thought you said this thing was safe!" he yelled at Hardison, because that was the only thing he could do besides watch the General struggle before being dragged away by the men … men who belonged to —

Moreau suddenly appeared on screen. "Manticore?" he asked, probably responding to something Hardison was saying. "Thank you for destroying Duberman last year! You bankrupted his company, put his old servers on the open market. It's amazing what ten million dollars and some clever tech support can do … Hey, don't blame yourselves for this, Ribera makes sure I stay safe and I make sure he stays president." He paused, then added smugly, as only Moreau could, "Actually, to be fair, I wouldn't have found Flores if you hadn't contacted him, so, uh, go ahead and _do _blame yourselves!" And he _laughed_. The bastard.

"You can't just kill a war hero like Flores," Eliot growled, his rage building. He had forgotten just how sick Moreau could be. That's what made him so terrifying.

"No, of course not. We've got U.N. election inspectors here, world media. He's just imprisoned until after the election. Then he'll have a car accident. You know how these things are done ... or, uh, you used to." He smirked, enjoying the look on Eliot's face. He always had loved taunting people. "Sleep tight." Moreau sneered, before cutting the feed.

Eliot trembled all over. With rage, with guilt, with other emotions he didn't dare show in front of the team.

He barely heard Nate say, "Eliot ..." He was already halfway out the door.

He needed to hit something, hard, before the rage devolved into emotions he had always been awful at expressing.

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He hit the bag over and over and over and over. He hit it until he was out of breath, until he needed water, until his knuckles were bloody, but the rage wouldn't ebb, the helplessness wouldn't recede. His phone rang and rang, then stopped — voicemail. He was glad he had come home to his workout room; he had thought about going to a park and beating up some local thugs, but nobody deserved to be beaten that badly ... except Moreau. His phone rang, then stopped. He kept hitting. There was blood all over his hands now, but at least it was his own blood this time ... He kept hitting. His phone rang, then stopped. The rage kept him from feeling any pain. His phone rang, then stopped. Rang, then —

He threw the phone against the wall and it shattered. He knew it was Sophie, or Nate, or maybe even Hardison. At least Parker knew when to leave well enough alone.

He took another swing at the bag, but his energy was gone. He knew what was coming, but he tried to fight it. He took another swing and collapsed, hanging onto the bag for support. His eyes welled with tears. There was no stopping it now. He dragged himself to the wall and leaned back against it. Drawing his knees to his chest, he let his head fall onto his arms and sobbed like a child.

But he couldn't even cry properly. The tears didn't fall; they never did — hadn't, for almost ten years. They stung his eyes until he couldn't see, and the sobs wracked his body until he could barely breathe, but he couldn't cry. Not even for Juan Flores, the man who had saved him from his worst enemy — himself.

When the emotions had run their course, he let himself fall over to the floor and tried to think.

How had he let this happen? He had called the General right after Moreau left for San Lorenzo. Juan had been surprised; Eliot hadn't called him in almost two years. He was calm, as always, and told Eliot they'd figure out a plan. He mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that he was in hiding because of the election, but he told Eliot they'd be in touch. When Nate decided to finish Moreau, they had set up today's talk with the team. Why?

_It's not like he was hiding for his fucking health, _Eliot thought. They both knew what Moreau was capable of. Why hadn't he insisted on a more secure call?

It wasn't surprising that the General hadn't objected. He had always put his country and his cause — freedom and democracy for San Lorenzo — ahead of his own safety, and even that of his family. But Eliot should have caught it. Why hadn't he?

He knew why. He was exhausted. After what happened in the warehouse, the nightmares had started again. And not the usual ones he had nightly — there was a reason he said he only slept ninety minutes a day (an exaggeration, but not by much). These were bad. Night _terrors_, not nightmares. He'd wake up screaming, heart racing, in a cold sweat. He couldn't even sleep with the lights out. They hadn't been this bad since he'd joined the team. And even Eliot Spencer couldn't go a week without sleep. He was off his game.

And the General was suffering for it. After everything the man had gone through at the hands of Moreau — countless injuries, death threats, assassination attempts, threats against his family, the loss of his only son — this is what finally got him? A fucking phone call?

Eliot had promised the Flores family that he'd never let anything happen to the General. Almost a decade ago the man had saved Eliot from himself; he'd been the father that Eliot needed when he was at his lowest, and Eliot had helped Juan fill the void after the loss of his son. That's why he hadn't mentioned the warehouse when they talked. He knew what the General would think, and he couldn't bear the thought of the disappointment in Juan's eyes when he learned Eliot had … relapsed.

He had told Nate they were out of their league. But he wouldn't listen. He never did. The rage was back, but it wasn't helpless this time.

He got out the spare phone Hardison had given him the last time his broke. ("I'm sorry, you're calling me from where?! A _payphone_?! Are you also calling from the Delorean that took you back to the 1990s? Do you have any idea how insecure that is? Where's your cell? ... Dammit, Eliot, we are going to have a strong talk when you get back. A _strong _talk!") Eliot dialed the only man who was capable of maybe — _maybe _— getting them all out of this alive.

"What's the plan, Nate?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Nate had gotten them a last-minute chartered flight to San Lorenzo by calling the Italian. _Great, _Eliot thought, _someone else who has leverage over us. Just what we need._

The team was sleeping around the spacious cabin, except for Nate, who never seemed to need it. It had been a busy twenty-four hours as they prepared to leave, and everyone was exhausted, including Eliot. But he couldn't sleep. No, he _wouldn't_ sleep; he badly wanted to, but not in front of the team. He wouldn't let them see the nightmares, because he wouldn't be able to answer the questions that followed. So instead he let the memories overwhelm him.

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_Almost a decade ago_

Eliot awoke to a phone ringing, which confused him. He didn't remember asking for a wake-up call. He looked at the clock: _6:37 am_. He _definitely_ didn't ask for a wake-up call that fucking early. Not this week. Eventually it'd stop.

But as he listened to the ringing, he realized it wasn't the very distinctive ring of a hotel wake-up call. It was the very distinctive ring of Moreau's phone. _Shit._ Moreau insisted on being able to contact him at all times, and so he'd been provided with this mobile phone. It was clunky and he hated it, but that was part of the job. He grabbed it, because letting it ring wasn't going to make it stop. Besides, you always picked up for Moreau.

"Spencer."

"Moreau needs you," Chapman snapped over the line.

"Like hell he does. I'm on vacation," Eliot snapped back. He was hoping it would be Moreau himself, not a toady.

"Yes, yes, we all know The Chosen One is on vacation, but he needs you. Now."

Eliot growled. He hated that dumbass nickname, and he wasn't in the mood for Chapman's inferiority complex. "Why don't you do it? Then you can show him what you're made of and finally get the approval you never received as a child."

"What about 'He needs _you_' don't you understand? He told me to call you and tell you to get your ass back here now. Some big job that can't wait, apparently."

Eliot sighed. "Tell him I'll be in first thing tomorrow morning. I'm not in the country."

"He won't be happy about that," Chapman warned.

"He wouldn't be happy if you said it, but he always understands when it's me," Eliot smirked. If his day was going to be ruined, he might at least get some enjoyment by rubbing salt in Chapman's chipped shoulder.

"Fuck you," Chapman snarled, and hung up.

Eliot flopped back down on the pillow and groaned. _Fuck. _He'd better get paid extra for this. Usually Moreau was respectful of Eliot's downtime, so this call was unusual. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, trying to imagine what could be so important.

He turned his head to the woman next to him. She was still sound asleep. Not surprising, after the night she had. Eliot smiled. He couldn't remember her name, but he did remember how much she cost. More than he expected. But she was perfect, just his type, so he splurged. _Worth every penny,_ he smiled. But he was disappointed. He had been looking forward to spending the day in bed while she did all manner of unspeakable things to him.

Eliot grumbled and got out of bed. He showered and gathered his things. It wasn't until he put the cash on the nightstand that he noticed she was awake.

"Where are you going?" she said with a pout. Eliot got a hard-on just thinking about how she'd used that pout last night.

"Work. Duty calls."

"What do you do again?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Thanks for last night, darlin'." He left with a wink and a smile that had slain nearly every woman he met, even the ones that weren't paid to swoon at it.

_Dammit, Damien, this had better be fucking important, _he growled. _Like, life-or-death important._

He had no idea.

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It was just about eight the next morning when Eliot finally reached Moreau's mansion in San Lorenzo. He had planned to be in the night before, but his train had been late and he'd had to travel all night. He had barely slept and had no time to even go home, much less shower and change. He was seriously regretting not telling Chapman and Moreau to fuck off and going back to sleep yesterday. But no one told Moreau to fuck off. Not who lived to tell about it anyway. _But if someone tries anything, I swear ..._

Moreau's study was packed. He had called the whole team in. _Odd._

"The Chosen One has returned!" Chapman exclaimed when he entered the room. Eliot almost punched him in the neck.

That damned nickname pissed him off even when he wasn't sleep-deprived. When Moreau needed a new Head of Security — the official title, but it obviously included more than that — everyone had assumed that he'd promote from within the organization, specifically Chapman. Chapman especially felt that he would and should get the job. But instead Moreau decided to hire from the outside and chose the best in the personal security/hitting business: Eliot Spencer. No one was happy about it, least of all Chapman, and they let him know by calling him Moreau's Chosen One. After a while, they learned why Eliot was chosen — because he was damn good at what he did — and the nickname lost its appeal. But not with Chapman. Eliot's success made him even more jealous and angry, so he taunted Eliot every chance he could, including in front of Moreau. Moreau didn't stop it; on the contrary, he enjoyed the competition, as long as it didn't interfere with the work. So Eliot had decided to fight fire with fire and dish it right back.

But he was too tired this morning to come up with anything witty, and punching Chapman in the neck wouldn't ingratiate himself to anyone, so he contented himself with a growl.

"Now, now, boys," Moreau cooed with a smile, "settle down. Eliot, good to see you. I apologize for calling you back here, I know I promised you two weeks, but this couldn't wait. Rest assured you will be sufficiently compensated."

Eliot gave Moreau a nod and smiled to himself. That's why he stayed in this job: Moreau paid better than any mob, any corporation, any military, any government or not-officially-a-part-of-the-government entity, or any cute little rebel cause. Eliot knew because he'd worked for them all. This was the best job he'd ever had, hands down.

"What's the job?" he asked.

Moreau handed him a folder.

"William Perez?"

"I want him taken care of."

_About time, _Eliot thought. William Perez had been a thorn in Moreau's side — and therefore Eliot's side — for over a year. He had borrowed a large sum of money from Moreau two years ago, but still hadn't paid it back. Initially he'd been paying the money back in small installments, but by the time the money was due, a large balance was left. He had given Moreau some sob story about a sick child, losing his job, blah blah. Moreau didn't care, and it wasn't Eliot's job to. But Moreau had been busy and hadn't had time to deal with it. Eliot had paid Perez several visits to convince him to pay Moreau back, and Eliot could be _very_ convincing. But nothing had worked. Moreau must have found some time to deal with it now.

Eliot frowned. "You called me back from vacation for this? This is so straightforward, even Chapman could handle it."

He answered Chapman's growl with a devilish grin. "Hey, I'm just trying to give you some opportunities to show what you're capable of. Visibility is everything." He winked, and for a second it looked as if Chapman was going to punch _him_ in the throat. _I would love to see you try, Chapman._

Moreau smiled. "True, but let me finish. I don't want this done the usual way. I want the Maroni treatment."

Maroni was a local gangster who had been dumb enough to think he could unseat Damien Moreau. When Moreau figured out Maroni's plans, he told Eliot to make an example of him. When all was said and done, Moreau had called Eliot's work "inspired." Eliot had to agree. The things he'd done to Maroni were things he'd never done before or since; things he'd only ever had done to him, and some new things he was pretty sure no one had ever done before. It was the job Eliot was proudest of. Was it a bit much for someone who owed Moreau money? Maybe, but that wasn't Eliot's call. But there was something that still didn't make sense.

"I only need a couple guys for that. Why did you call everyone in?"

"You know, that's why I like you Eliot. You always get right to the point." Moreau smiled at him fondly. "You're right, you don't need everyone to give Perez the Maroni treatment. But I want to make an example of him. I can't let people think I've gone soft. Your previous visits had apparently no effect. So I'm going to punish him once and for all. You're not just going to take care of Perez, you're going to take care of his whole family."

The room was silent. They had never done anything like that before.

Eliot was sure he had misunderstood. "The — the whole _family_?" he stuttered.

"That's right."

Eliot opened the file again. It took him three tries; his hands had stopped working. "Sir," he said — always "Sir", never "Damien" in front of the men, like he was some sort of high-ranking general ordering his troops into battle — "he has a wife and six kids, ranging in age from eighteen to..." Eliot's breath caught in his throat. "Two years old. Four of them are girls."

Eliot didn't give a shit whether the kids were boys or girls, but girls didn't usually grow up to join Flores's freedom fighters, so he wasn't sure what Moreau's reasoning was. _Children?_ That seemed a bit much, even for Moreau.

"I don't care if they're boys, girls, or something in between. I want them gone. They need to be made an example."

"But sir..." Eliot could barely breathe — this wasn't right. "Sir, maybe we could give Perez one last chance. Let me talk to him again, I'll let him know what's at stake, maybe he'll —"

"This isn't up for debate, Spencer. You have your orders. I want it done tonight. Make a plan and make sure everyone knows what they need to do. Call me when it's done. Is that clear?"

Eliot paused. Too long. "Y-yes, sir."

"Good. You're all dismissed. Spencer, stay, I'd like a word."

Eliot cringed. _Shit_, he called him Spencer. Moreau never called Eliot by his last name unless he was being formal or he was pissed. Eliot figured in this case it was both.

Chapman shot him a look before he closed the door. Eliot turned back to Moreau.

"Damien, I —"

"You look like shit. Did you sleep last night?" Moreau looked concerned.

Maybe this wouldn't be a chew-out session after all. Maybe Moreau was going to give Eliot extra orders — that wasn't unusual, especially if it was something that could help or hurt Moreau politically, like this. Maybe they'd pretend those were the orders, but have Moreau "change his mind" at the last minute so he'd look merciful. Maybe Eliot wouldn't have to do this ...

"Not much, but I'm fine. Listen, Damien, I wanted to —"

"Because I thought that might be why you completely undermined me in front of my men," Moreau snarled. "Is it?"

"Damien —"

"This is not a democracy, Spencer. You work for me. I give you orders and you carry them out. That's your job. You offer your opinion only if I ask for it. Is there something you don't understand about that?"

Eliot felt his stomach turn to lead. _He's not fucking around. He's really gonna — the whole family?_

"Yes, sir… I just want to make sure this is definitely what you want to do. This will affect how the country views you." He had to try to talk him out of it.

"And that is precisely the point," Moreau smiled. "They've gotten complacent. They need to be reminded what I'm capable of ... and what you're capable of."

Am _I capable of this?_

"I just —"

"Do we have a problem, Spencer? Are you arguing with me?"

Eliot paused. "No. No problem."

"Good. And let the men loose. They've been whining that you've been having all the fun lately, but that's my fault. Too many small jobs that require only you. This is a big one, and I want all hands on deck. So plan around that."

Eliot nodded, because he couldn't speak.

Moreau sat and looked at some papers on his desk. Eliot took that as his sign to leave.

"Oh, and Spencer? Challenge me in front of the men again and you're gone. I don't care how good you are. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Eliot managed to say. He understood, he just wasn't sure if he cared.

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Eliot stood underneath the scalding water, washing off the blood. It was done.

And so was he.

For the first time since he started down this path, he wasn't sure what was next. When Aimee had gotten married, he liberated Croatia and did the odd retrieval jobs around eastern Europe and Asia before he realized he could get paid to do what he did best: hurt people. He'd never looked back.

Until now. What he'd done last night was the worst thing he'd ever done in his entire life. He could never undo it. Why had he done it?

After his conversation with Moreau, he'd agonized over what to do. He thought about telling Moreau he was leaving; telling Moreau to go fuck himself; skipping town without telling Moreau anything; trying to warn the Perez family; trying to help smuggle the Perez family out of the country. None were feasible. He couldn't just leave; Moreau would just send Chapman or someone else. He didn't have the resources to get the Perezes out of the country, even as well-off as he was. He was surely being watched, so any warning he could have given wouldn't have helped anyway. And even if he _had_ warned them, they probably wouldn't have believed him. Eliot Spencer, Moreau's Rottweiler, warning them that Moreau wanted them dead? He wouldn't have believed himself.

So he did the only thing he could: he did the job.

Except he didn't. "Let them loose," Moreau had said, and in his helplessness, Eliot was ready to do it. He'd let them have their fun, and he'd wait outside until it was over. But that changed when he saw the look in Chapman's eyes as he grabbed hold of the ten-year-old girl. Her name had been Anna. But Chapman didn't want to kill her, at least not right away. The hunger in his eyes showed that he wanted to ... enjoy her first. He wanted to —

Eliot fell to his hands and knees and retched onto the floor of the shower. Not that there was anything left. Blood wasn't the only thing he needed to wash off when he got home.

But it was the only thing he _couldn't_ wash off. As he looked at his hands, he saw layers upon layers of it. Years' worth of it. He heard their voices, their pleading, their crying, their last breaths. He saw them all, and he knew all of their names.

The water was freezing now, but that wasn't why Eliot shivered. He pulled his knees to his chest and ... nothing. He felt nothing. Not anger, not grief, not sadness — nothing. He wanted to cry for them, for himself, but he couldn't. He wanted to feel rage at Moreau, at _himself_, but he couldn't. He was gone. He wasn't human anymore. He was an empty shell with blood on his hands, on his _soul._

And the blood wouldn't wash off.

He chuckled mirthlessly as he thought of Lady MacBeth. "Out, damned spot! Out, I say!" Did Shakespeare understand how she felt when he wrote those lines? Did he understand how Eliot felt?

Lady MacBeth had committed suicide because of her madness. Madness caused by the awful things she had done. Maybe he should kill himself, too. Maybe that was the only way to stop the emptiness.

The phone rang. Eliot knew who it was. He answered.

"Get over here. Now." It was a voice Eliot had only heard directed at other people: the enemies of Damien Moreau.

Maybe he wouldn't have to kill himself. Maybe Moreau would do it for him.

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When he arrived at Moreau's mansion, it was dawn. Sunrise. It was beautiful. He'd always loved the sunrises and sunsets in San Lorenzo. But not today. He didn't love anymore. He couldn't feel anything.

The door to the study was closed. He knocked.

"Enter."

He did. Moreau was pacing the room, as pissed as Eliot had ever seen him. But Eliot wasn't scared. He couldn't feel anything.

"Spencer, how nice of you to join us. Chapman, give us the room."

Of course it had been Chapman. He had known it would be.

"But sir —" Chapman complained, clearly wanting a front row seat to Eliot's downfall.

"OUT!" Moreau yelled. Chapman scampered out the door.

"Do you want to explain to me what happened last night, Spencer? I gave you explicit orders. Do you remember that?"

Spencer again. But he didn't cringe this time. He couldn't feel pain.

"Yes, I remember that, Damien." It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd finished the job. His voice sounded odd to him. Foreign.

"Then you remember that I told you that I wanted the family gone?"

"The family is gone, Damien. I did it myself." His voice was emotionless. Like him.

"But I gave you very specific orders about how it was to be done. You didn't follow them."

"No."

Moreau looked surprised. Maybe he had expected Eliot to try to lie about it. Or at least argue. But Eliot didn't have any more fight in him.

"That's right. You didn't. Chapman said you ordered all the men to stand down, including him. You made them wait outside while you 'took care of things.' When you were done, you left without a word. Chapman said they hadn't been given the Maroni treatment."

"That's correct." Eliot was mildly surprised that Chapman hadn't exaggerated. Maybe he knew he didn't have to.

"Why did you blatantly disregard my orders?"

"Because I disagreed with them. The family didn't deserve it. But they were still made an example. You extinguished a whole family, Damien. Does it matter how they died?"

It didn't matter to Eliot. Dead was dead. There was blood on his hands no matter how it had been done.

"It does matter! You undermined me in front of my men! After I told you that if you did it again, you'd be gone. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"So you're aware you just threw away everything you had. Do you even want this job?"

Eliot shrugged. He didn't care either way.

"It pays well."

Moreau looked stunned. "Is this because I called you away from vacation?"

Eliot scowled. Is that what Moreau thought? He couldn't think of any other reason why Eliot would disobey his orders?

Then it hit him. Moreau didn't feel anything either, did he? He ordered people killed, and it didn't faze him. _Huh._ Maybe that was his problem last night. He felt too much. But now he didn't. He couldn't feel anything. And that made him perfect for Moreau's Head of Security. Maybe he wanted this job after all.

So he lied. "Yeah. I was pissed. So I fucked up your job. But the point was still made. They were made an example. I don't see what the problem is."

Moreau laughed. Like he actually thought this was funny. Maybe it was funny, Eliot couldn't tell.

"I've always liked you, Eliot." _Eliot again. _"You have the biggest balls of anyone I've ever known. I really would hate to see you go. But I have to punish you."

Eliot nodded.

"So I'll make you a deal. I'm giving you one last job. If you pull it off, you can stay."

"What's the job?"

"Kill Flores."

It was Eliot who laughed this time. _Suicide it is, then._

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"Are you thinking about your friend?"

The sound Eliot made when he heard Parker's question was one that he'd never made before in his life.

Parker laughed. "That was an awesome sound. Can you do it again?"

"Jesus, Parker! Don't sneak up on people like that! And no, I won't make it again!" His heart was pounding.

She stopped smiling. "I snuck up on you? I've only done that once before, and that was when you were nervous about singing." She smiled her big smile. "When you were the Fiddle! Do you remember that?"

"Of course I remember that, Parker. Kinda hard to forget."

She looked concerned now. "Why did I sneak up on you this time? Was it because you were thinking about your friend, the General?"

"Yeah ... I was."

Parker looked upset now. "Hardison feels really bad about that. He thinks you hate him."

Eliot looked over at Hardison, who had fallen asleep while working. His laptop was balanced precariously on his legs, his phone was in one hand, and an orange soda was in the other. Eliot wasn't sure he'd ever seen Hardison sleep laying down.

He felt a twinge of guilt as he turned back to Parker. "I don't hate him, Parker. It wasn't his fault."

"Then why did you yell at him?"

Eliot sighed. "Because I was scared."

Parker snorted. "Ha! Yeah right! You never get scared. Just mad."

Eliot looked into her eyes. So young, so ... innocent. She had seen some awful things in her life — not as awful as the things he'd seen, but still terrible. Bounced around the system. In and out of juvie. Probably abused, which made Eliot clench his fists, as it always did when he thought of it. How had she come away from all of that as innocent and naive as she was?

"Of course I get scared, Parker. I only get mad to cover it up."

"So whenever you're mad, that means you're scared?"

Eliot smiled. She really was like a child sometimes. "Of course not. Sometimes I really do get mad, but sometimes I only get mad because I'm scared and I don't know what else to do."

Parker thought about it. "So what kinds of things are you scared of?"

_Losing the people I care about ... disappointing the people I care about ... not being able to protect the people I care about ... becoming the Rottweiler again ..._

"I get scared whenever you guys are in danger and I can't help you."

"You do? Why?"

_Shit. _He sucked at this. Why couldn't she talk to Sophie?

"Is it because you like us and don't want anything to happen to us?" Parker asked.

Eliot smiled. "Yeah, Parker, I like you guys."

"And you like the General, and you don't want anything to happen to him? That's why you saved his life twice, right? Oh, sorry, once and a half." She smiled.

Eliot looked away. _Please don't ask me, Parker. Please ..._

"But why do you like him so much? I mean, you like us because we're your team. Were you on a team with him a long time ago, when he was a General and you were a Commander?" She giggled. "Commander. That sounds like Commodore, like in Pirates of the Caribbean ... hehe, you'd be funny as a pirate."

Eliot rolled his eyes.

"But seriously, were you on a team with him?"

_Yes, after he saved me ... _He couldn't explain to her his relationship with the General, because she wouldn't understand.

"Sorta, yeah ..." _Wait a minute._ "Actually, Parker, you know how you feel about Archie? How you did that job at Wakefield because you didn't want him to be in danger?"

She looked at her hands. "Yeah ..."

"Well, that's how I feel about the General. He took me in and helped me when I needed it. He helped me stop ..." He stopped. He was getting dangerously close to things he'd rather not talk about.

"He helped you stop doing that thing you don't do anymore?"

A cold pang sliced right through his heart. _Yeah, that thing I don't do anymore ... except for last week. _She couldn't ever know. None of them could ever know. The only thing worse than the look of disappointment in Juan's eyes would be the looks of horror in their eyes. Sophie had even said, "You're not that man anymore." If they ever found out that he _was_ still that man, that he never really stopped ...

"Yeah ... that thing I don't do anymore ..." He turned away from her. He was trembling, he was close to losing it, and he couldn't let her see that.

"Eliot?" He flinched when she touched his arm. He wished she would go away.

Then all of a sudden her arms were wrapped around him, her head leaning against his shoulder. He froze. She didn't usually hug him, or anyone.

"Don't be scared, Eliot. We'll save him." She pulled away, smiling mischievously. "Nate has a plan!"

Then she skipped away, grabbed some chocolate from the fridge, and went back to picking the locks she'd brought with her.

He was alone again. He wished she would come back. His heart was a little bit warmer now.

_This plan had better be the best you've ever come up with, Nate._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eliot was looking out the window, thinking about going back to San Lorenzo, when a voice said, "You look exhausted."

He turned to see Nate looking at him from across the wide aisle. He had papers strewn all over, his hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he was on bottle number who-knew-what of whiskey.

"You should talk," Eliot said, careful not to meet Nate's eyes. He hadn't been able to look him in the eyes since what happened at the warehouse.

"Hmm, yes, except I've only been sleepless for about twenty-four hours. You've been sleepless for what now? A week?"

He froze. _Fuck you, Nate. I asked you not to talk about it ..._

"Technically I promised you I wouldn't mention it to them. So this isn't against the rules," Nate said.

Damn him, he always could seem to tell what Eliot was thinking.

"You should get some rest, Eliot. I need you at your best for the next few days, and if you —"

"I'll be at my best, Nate," Eliot snarled, "because I know what Moreau is capable of. Anything less will get people hurt, or worse. More than they already are ..." he added softly, almost to himself. "The question is, will you be at your best?" he said harshly, "Because anything less —"

"Will get people hurt, or worse," Nate said softly. "I know what Moreau is capable of, too."

He looked at Eliot. Their eyes met for a millisecond, but before Eliot could begin to read what they said, he turned his head to look out the window again. He was trembling again.

"I just ..." Nate paused, as if gathering his thoughts. _Unusual._ He took a deep breath, then, "If you ever need anyone to talk to —"

"My first phone call will be to the emotionally stunted drunk with a God complex, don't you worry," Eliot snarled. He could see Nate looking at him through the reflection in the window, but couldn't read his eyes.

Nate sighed. "Just try to get some rest if you can."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Eliot said curtly. He knew he wasn't being exactly fair, that Nate probably just wanted to make sure he was okay, but that was the point. He didn't need to talk about it, he didn't need to be reminded, and he didn't need Nate poking his nose where it didn't belong. And he certainly didn't need to be stuck on a nine-hour flight with these people. _Just leave me alone ..._

He looked at his watch. Only a couple hours and they'd be in San Lorenzo.

And then the real fun would begin.

.

.

.

Eliot stood in the shadows outside Flores's compound, waiting for the guard rotation. Moreau had graciously given him two days to plan — yet another offer he never made to the others, just like Eliot's second chance — but Eliot didn't need it. He had memorized the blueprints long ago. How many men had he sent on this suicide mission? Each time he refined his own plan in his head, just in case Moreau decided to stop using it as punishment and decided to send him for real. Eliot never imagined _he_ would be sent as a punishment.

The reason the others had always failed was that they always chose the wrong entrance point. They always decided to go through the back or side entrances. While those entrances had fewer guards — one or two at most — and less visibility from the road, they were also out of the way. The house was a maze inside, and if they didn't know their way — and they usually didn't, having only a couple of hours to look at the blueprints — they would inevitably get lost and stumble upon a guard, and _bam_ — another failed mission/successful punishment. It had gotten to the point where Moreau's men referred to any situation that wouldn't end well as a _Flores mission._

But Eliot had always known the best entrance point was the front. Yes, it was extremely visible and there were four guards, but once in it was a straight shot up the grand staircase and to the right to either the study or the master bedroom, one of two places Flores was likely to be at this time of night. And four guards? Please, Eliot had taken on more than that in bar fights.

He dispatched the first three guards with relative ease, each with a quick blow to the head. The fourth was a bit trickier, but he finally got the man into a chokehold and held him until he passed out. _Only one body on order tonight._

He snuck up the darkened staircase and down the hallway to the right. There were two guards outside the bedroom, but again Eliot dispatched them quickly and quietly. Three and a half minutes and he was already farther than anyone had ever gotten before. He listened at the bedroom door: quiet. Maybe Flores hadn't been awakened. He kicked in the door, closed it behind him, and immediately shoved the closest piece of furniture in front of it — a small dresser. It would only buy him thirty seconds at the most, but he wasn't sure how long he'd have before the alarm sounded, and every second would count.

He cocked his gun. He usually didn't like guns, but he needed to be in and out and know for a fact that the job was done, and a gun was the cleanest and quickest way. He switched on the light and was almost knocked off his feet by a blow to the face.

The old man _had_ woken up. Eliot's nose was bleeding — not broken, but his eyes watered so that he could barely see the second hit.

He stumbled back, but saw his target through watery eyes. He hit the man in the solar plexus and smacked him in the face with the gun, then pushed him away. _Impressive. _Flores, like him, preferred hand-to-hand combat.

With his target on the floor and gasping for breath, Eliot aimed his gun. "Don't move."

To Eliot's surprise, Flores did move. In fact, he stood up, still gasping, but on his feet.

"Eliot Spencer. I knew if anyone would get this far, it would be you."

Eliot was surprised. He had never met Flores in person, and had always imagined him as a tall, formidable man with a deep booming voice. In reality, he was about as tall as Eliot and a bit stocky. His beard and mustache were salt-and-pepper — he was old enough to be Eliot's father — and when he spoke, it was with a soft voice in slightly accented English that Eliot knew could command the attention of a room in spite of its unassuming sound.

Eliot heard scuffling in the bathroom, behind Flores. _His wife must be hiding in there._ But Eliot didn't care; his orders were one body, and he was going to follow them to a _T_.

"Don't even try it," Eliot said as Flores looked around for a weapon. "Now turn around and get on your knees."

"How many of my men are dead?" Flores asked, ignoring Eliot's command.

Eliot was nonplussed. "None," he said, too surprised to tell anything but the truth.

"Don't lie to me," Flores said. "The Rottweiler is bloodthirsty and vicious, and when the master tells him to kill, he unleashes his fury on anyone who gets in his way. So how many did you kill?"

"I told you, none. Six are unconscious: four at the front gate and two just outside." _Why am I even telling you this? Why the hell does it matter?_ "Now that we're done with pleasantries, turn around and get on your knees."

"I will not," Flores said calmly. "If I'm to die tonight, I will do it with honor: standing and looking you in the eye. And you'll have to look at my face when you pull the trigger."

"Do I look like I'm fucking around, old man?!" Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. He wasn't used to people staring death in the face and telling him no. "Now get on your god-damned knees!"

"Or else what, you'll kill me?" Flores asked with a smirk. "Go ahead, I'm ready."

Eliot couldn't believe the balls on this man. He should shoot him in the face right now. He gripped the gun tightly, and looked into the man's eyes as he prepared to pull the trigger ...

Nothing.

He tried again. Nothing. He couldn't do it. His finger was frozen in place, just as his eyes were glued to the dark, resolute, fearless ones of the man in front of him.

He saw in those eyes the eyes of them all. Then he heard them all, just like before, but louder — pleading, begging, crying —

"What are you waiting for?" Flores asked, almost patiently.

Then Eliot started to shake. Uncontrollably. He couldn't hold the gun steady. His legs started to wobble. Sweat poured down his forehead and tears — _Tears? Of what?_ — trickled down his face.

He had been wrong when he thought he still wanted the job. He didn't want it. He had thought that being empty would make him better, more like Moreau. But he wasn't like Moreau. He never had been. If he had, he wouldn't have disobeyed orders last night. But he'd had enough. He couldn't kill anymore. He couldn't see the light in their eyes go out anymore. It wasn't just that he didn't want to; he _couldn't _do it. His very body refused.

He was done.

"Spencer?" The look on Flores's face was one of confusion, and something else. _Was it concern? It couldn't be ..._

Whatever they said, the dark eyes snapped Eliot back to the present. He'd made his decision. He took the magazine out of the gun and emptied the chamber. He threw the magazine and bullet out the window, and the gun to his right, toward the door. There were noises outside. Someone had finally sounded the alarm.

"Get out of the country," he said to the eyes. "Take your wife and your daughter and go. Now."

"Never," Flores whispered. "My people need me."

"Do you hear what I'm saying?!" Eliot nearly shouted. "Moreau will kill you. But he'll kill them first. He'll make you watch while they're tortured and murdered in front of you, and he'll enjoy it! If you're stupid enough to stay, at least send them away."

"Why, or they'll die like the Perez family?"

Eliot flinched. He knew. Of course he knew. He was at war, and he knew the moves of the enemy.

"Yes. He won't hesitate anymore. If you want to save them, send them away."

"Why are you doing this?" Flores asked. "Why do you care?"

"Because they're innocent."

There was banging on the door now. With the dresser, he had thirty seconds at most. He had to get out. If the old man wouldn't listen to his warning, it wasn't because he hadn't tried.

He moved to the window. It was his only escape. They were only on the second floor, and there were bushes to break his fall. He'd jumped from worse.

"Wait!" Flores said sharply.

Eliot turned out of instinct. The tone was that of an officer — and Eliot was trained to listen to that tone.

"Don't go. Stay and help us."

_What? Did he say _stay_? Fat chance._

Eliot turned back to the window.

"Spencer! I mean it. We can protect you."

_I'm already dead. I just killed myself by not pulling that trigger._ "There's no way you can protect me."

"Yes we can. Listen, we can help each other. You can give us intel on Moreau's organization, and we'll provide you protection from him."

"You can't even protect yourself, old man! I nearly killed you!" More sounds at the door. He had fifteen seconds. _Get out now, Spencer!_

"But you didn't. You could have, but chose not to. You told me to send my family away because they're innocent. Imagine how many other innocents you could save if you helped us!"

The door was being battered now. _Five seconds_. He didn't need to worry about innocents, he needed to worry about himself.

"No. I can't." He turned again to the window.

"How many more children will have to die?" Flores asked desperately.

Eliot froze. _Children._ If he ran, he was a dead man. If he stayed ... he was still a dead man, but he might be able to do something to stop Moreau. If he ran now, the blood of all the people, all the _children_, Moreau had yet to kill would be on his hands. On his soul.

The thirty seconds was up, but the guards hadn't broken through yet. Eliot frowned. That door would have taken him ten seconds by himself, and there were several men out there.

He felt a sudden grip on his arm. Flores had grabbed him. Eliot tried to fight him off, but the old man had an iron grip. He spun Eliot around and the iron grip was on both his upper arms so Eliot had to look into his eyes.

For a split second Eliot saw his own father; that was how he'd held Eliot as a child when he was telling Eliot something important. The seriousness and patience in those eyes was overwhelming. Eliot blinked and Flores was back, but the eyes were the same.

"Spencer, don't go. I know you don't want any more blood on your hands. Help us."

_How could he know that? _How could he know what Eliot had been thinking?

The guards burst through. Eliot frowned. _Forty-five seconds. Pathetic._

"Stand down!" Flores shouted, but they didn't listen. _Good. First rule: protect the principal. Never follow his orders when he's in danger. He could be coerced._

There were seven guards. Two tackled Flores to the ground. _Good again. Protect the principal. _The other five headed for Eliot.

"Don't shoot!" Flores's shout was muffled by the two men who tackled him.

Eliot raised his hands in the air and prepared for the shots. _Do it, please ..._

The shots never came. The guards surrounded him. One shouted, "Face down on the floor now! Hands on your head!"

_Wrong. Eliminate the threat. Just because he's not armed doesn't mean he's not dangerous. _There were only five of them. Eliot could have taken them.

But he didn't want to. Not anymore. Flores was right. He'd made his choice. He followed the shouted orders. His head exploded in pain, and before everything went dark he wondered if he'd made the right one.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Eliot was aware of the searing pain in his head before he even opened his eyes. He heard voices — two soft, one particularly loud — that seemed to be discussing something important. He opened one eye to see if anyone was looking at him. They weren't, so he opened both eyes to get his bearings.

He was in a small room, like the kind he used to have in the barracks when he was in the service. His bed was small with a metal frame, pushed up against a side wall. The door was straight ahead of him as he looked toward his feet. The men were standing in the middle of the room. It sounded as though the two soft voices were trying to calm the loud one.

"General, this is a terrible idea! It's Eliot Spencer! You know what he's done! Look what happened to the Perez family! You think he's just going to turn over a new leaf? How do you know Moreau didn't send him?"

The loud voice was right. _If Moreau was going to send anyone to be a mole, I would be perfect._

"Because he could have killed me, but he didn't." Eliot recognized the quiet firmness of Flores's voice. "I looked right into his eyes as he agonized over whether or not to pull the trigger, and I saw him make the right choice. He could have run away. He had plenty of time to get away before you broke down the door, but he didn't."

_Damn right I had time to get away, you took forty-five fucking seconds._

"General," the other soft voice said. "I'm afraid I have to agree. We have no idea if he's really planning to defect. We have to treat him as a prisoner."

Eliot suddenly realized his arm was positioned above his head. He only moved it a fraction of an inch, but the metal of the handcuffs clanked against the metal bedframe. He looked over at the men, who had suddenly stopped talking and turned at the sound.

There were three of them — Flores and two others. The soft-spoken one was older, like Flores. The loud one was young — very young, probably not even twenty. A boy.

He thought that now would be the time to say something clever, but his head was pounding too much. He decided to ask for some water instead, but the loud one advanced on him.

"Spencer, what the hell are you —"

"That's enough, Commander," Flores said in a calm, firm voice. "I would like to speak with Mr. Spencer now. Alone."

"Absolutely not!" the loud Commander said. "What if he tries to —"

"The General said enough," the man with the soft voice said. "We'll be waiting right outside, General." He was addressing Flores, but he was looking at Eliot.

As the door closed behind them, the loud one immediately started arguing in what he probably thought was a hushed voice.

Flores smiled at Eliot as he unlocked the handcuff attached to Eliot's wrist.

"You'll have to forgive them," he said. "There's an enemy in their foxhole."

Eliot sat up.

"Would you like some water?"

Eliot nodded and his head spun, so he rested it in his hands until Flores handed him a glass of water. He sipped the water slowly; he was nauseated and had to be careful.

He looked at Flores, who was smiling at him. _I almost killed you. Why are you smiling?_

"Why am I still alive?"

"Because I'm still alive." Still smiling.

Eliot frowned. "Your men should have shot me on sight."

"I told them not to."

"They should have ignored that order. They had no way of knowing that I was no longer a threat."

"You weren't armed, and you were neither fighting nor running."

"That doesn't matter."

"It does here."

Eliot looked away. Someone like him didn't belong here.

"I have no intention of trading a life on the run for one of a prisoner. I'll take my chances with Moreau," he said.

"I think you misunderstand," Flores said. "You are not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you like. The handcuffs were supposedly for my own protection." He rolled his eyes. "They act as if I'm some sort of royalty to be guarded, not a four-star general."

Eliot stood up. "If I'm not a prisoner, then I'll be on my way." His head spun and the nausea nearly overwhelmed him.

Flores grabbed him arm and lowered him back down to sit on the bed. "You received quite a blow to the head. I'd take it easy."

"I'm fine."

"While you're not a prisoner, I would like you to stay until we've discussed your options," Flores said.

Eliot closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "My options. One: leave here and be killed by Moreau. Two: stay here, give you some secrets, and be killed by Moreau. Not great."

Flores smiled. "It's not quite as dire as that. The way I see it you have three options. One, stay with us indefinitely, provide us with information, and we'll provide you with protection. Two, stay with us for a short time, during which you'll provide us with information and we'll provide you with protection. You can leave whenever you like. Three, we part ways right now. No information, no protection, nothing."

"No offense, but your idea of protection isn't exactly inspiring. I took out six guards in three and a half minutes and could have killed you in one more and been out the door before your guards had even sounded an alarm. And forty-five seconds to get through that door? Pathetic."

"Against you, perhaps. But I've survived dozens of attempts on my life. You're the best Moreau had to offer, and I'm still here."

"That's only because I —" He stopped.

"Because you what? Had a change of heart?" He waited for Eliot to respond, and when he didn't, continued. "Why didn't you kill me, Eliot?" he asked softly.

_Eliot._ He looked into Flores's eyes and saw kindness and patience, and something else. Disappointment? He saw his father again, forever disappointed in the man Eliot had chosen to be, even when that man was a much better person than the one Eliot was now. He blinked and Flores was back, but this time the eyes were different. It wasn't disappointment. It was ... _No ... Pride?_

Flores continued. "Eliot, I could see your indecision when you first pointed the gun at me. You told me you hadn't killed my men. I refused to get on my knees, and you hesitated. I saw the agony in your eyes as you debated. You were trembling. There were tears in your eyes —"

"So what?" Eliot said sharply.

"You disassembled the gun and warned me to save my wife and daughter because they are innocents, as you said. You were ready to run until I mentioned children dying."

"So what?" Eliot snarled again.

"Eliot," Flores said softly. "Did you leave Moreau because of what he did to the Perez family?"

Eliot's eyes widened in anger. "What _he_ did to the Perez family? Moreau didn't do anything. That's not what he does. He orders from on high and passes judgment on those who can't defend themselves."

"You are correct about that. What Moreau's _men_ did to them, then."

Eliot shook his head in astonishment. He didn't know. _How can he not know?_

"No. What _I_ did to them." His voice broke on _I_. It was the first time he'd said it aloud.

"You?" Flores asked. He seemed surprised, but only mildly. "It didn't look like your work."

"That's because I disobeyed orders this time."

Flores nodded slowly. "That explains why you were sent to kill me." He smiled at the look Eliot gave him. "You think we didn't know that I was used as a punishment? The attempts were, as you so eloquently said earlier, pathetic." He stopped smiling. "What orders did you disobey?"

Eliot started to shake again and looked at his hands. He tried to form words, but all that came out was "Maroni."

Flores breathed in sharply. "The children?"

Eliot nodded. He was still looking at his hands. He couldn't tell him the real reason he'd disobeyed the orders. That Chapman had —

The nausea finally rose to the top. Flores, apparently anticipating this, held a trashcan while Eliot retched.

"Perhaps you should lay down. Movements of the head make the nausea worse," Flores said.

Eliot leaned back against the wall again and closed his eyes. _It's not the concussion ..._

"So ... you disobeyed orders ..." Flores said, almost to himself. "They weren't ..." He paused and looked at Eliot. "You were ... merciful."

Eliot's eyes snapped open to look at Flores. "Merciful?" he snarled. "You have a funny idea of mercy."

"We both know full well that there are worse things than death, Eliot," Flores said. "In those cases, yes, death itself is merciful."

"That doesn't change anything," Eliot said quietly.

"Nor should it. You have a lot of blood on your hands, Eliot Spencer. You will never be clean of that."

Flores stood. Eliot looked up at him as he moved to leave. Their eyes met.

"But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of doing good." He smiled softly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow you can make your decision." He left, closing the door behind him.

_Yes ... it was pride._

.

.

.

Eliot was jerked back to the present by the squeal of the brakes. They had landed in San Lorenzo.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Eliot was the last off the plane. Nate had gone off to talk to the Italian, who was waiting for him with something. _Probably our passports._

Hardison and Parker were bickering about something, and Sophie was watching Nate. Eliot took the time to walk farther out on the tarmac and watch the sunset. He smiled. San Lorenzo always did have very distinctive sunsets. Memories started to flood back, but before they could take hold, he heard a voice behind him.

"Eliot?"

Even though she had given him warning that she was there, he still flinched when Sophie touched his arm. _Damn. _He really needed to stop doing that, or they were going to notice that something was wrong.

"What's wrong?" Jesus, he had no damned privacy with these people. They just read his thoughts as though he'd spoken them aloud.

"I just ... haven't been here in a long time," he said, still looking at the sunset. No point in lying to her, she'd figure it out anyway.

"I know, but it's more than that. You haven't been the same since Moreau left for San Lorenzo last week. You're obviously exhausted, your temper has been much shorter ... "

His breathing grew more rapid as his heart pounded. _She can't ever know ..._

She rubbed his arm. "It wasn't your fault that he got away. Neither was what happened to the General. But we're going to fix it. That's why we're here. Nate has a plan, as always." She smiled.

_Why does everyone have so much fucking trust in Nate's god-damned plans?_ It was because of Nate's brilliant plan that Eliot had had to —

He must have looked upset or worried or something — he never could hide anything from the grifter — because she said, "You don't have to tell us about your past, Eliot, but if you ever need someone to listen, I hope you know that you can talk to me."

_I'd never burden you with that._ He put on a smile for her. "Thanks, Soph," he rasped. His voice was filled with more emotion than he'd wanted to show. She smiled in understanding and squeezed his arm, just as Nate called them all over and said,

"All right, guys. Let's go steal a country."

.

.

.

When they finally got to the hotel, Eliot couldn't get out of the car fast enough. Sophie giving him significant looks. Sophie giving Nate significant looks. Nate trying to decipher said looks. Their incredibly obvious attempt at a silent conversation clearly concerning him. And Parker and Hardison were huddled together, trying to "come up with an idea" for something. All he knew was that they kept saying the word _pretzels_ and it was driving him crazy.

As they walked down the hall to their rooms, Eliot snapped, "I swear to God, Parker, if you say 'pretzels' one more time ... "

Hardison and Parker exchanged a look — _How many silent conversations am I being left out of, and why?_ — and then Parker turned and said, "Pretzelspretzelspretzelspretzelspretzels! Come on, it's kind of a funny word, Eliot!" She smiled. "Besides, I've been in the mood for pretzels lately."

This made Hardison smile for some reason. He gave Hardison a _Really?-They're-just-fucking-pretzels_ look, and Hardison stopped smiling and looked away.

_Great. _The four members of his team were either annoying him, avoiding him, trying to get him to talk about his problems, or trying to get him to talk about his feelings. Only one of those was normal. What in the hell was going on with them?

Then he realized: _It's not the team, it's me._ He was the reason they were acting weird, and in all cases it was because he had done or said something unusual and they were worried, or hurt, or both. And it was all because of what had happened in the warehouse.

He couldn't do this anymore. He'd done something he'd promised himself he'd never do again, and he did it for them. But he'd never be able to move on. It changed the way he looked at them, talked to them, reacted to them. It would never be the same.

_This is my last job._ It was fitting, too. Finishing Moreau, finishing with the team. San Lorenzo had always been a place for endings. Leaving Moreau, leaving the Flores family, leaving Pete — he winced and pushed those memories out of his mind — and now the team. He was destined to be alone.

He was roused from his thoughts by Parker giggling — damn, he would miss her laugh — when he realized that, though they had gathered in Nate's room, they weren't doing anything. Parker and Hardison were talking together again. They had been acting really weird lately. If he didn't know better, he'd think they had finally kissed, but he knew Hardison was taking it way too slow for that. Nate and Sophie had apparently just finished a quiet conversation in the corner.

Nate came over and said, "Okay, we're going to meet back here at eight tomorrow for breakfast. In the meantime, get some rest."

"What's going on? Why aren't we starting now?" Eliot asked. _The sooner we get started, the sooner this will be over._ He realized with a pang that that also meant the sooner he'd leave the team, but he'd think about that later.

"Eliot, we just got off a nine-hour flight, and frankly, I'm exhausted. So let's meet back here tomorrow and then we'll get to planning."

_You? Sleeping? In the middle of a job?_ Eliot looked at Sophie, and then he understood. This was the topic of both their silent conversation in the car and their quiet conversation in the corner. A plot to get him to sleep. He rolled his eyes, pointedly, at them.

"I'm not tired at all," Parker chirped. "I think I'm gonna go explore the city."

"Don't go far, and keep a low profile," Nate said. "And no stealing, Parker. We don't want any unwanted attention."

She scoffed. "I can do all of those things at the same time. It's not like I'll get caught."

"Mama, I'm pretty sure he's more worried about people noticing things going missing than you getting caught," Hardison said to her. "I'll go with her, Nate, unless you need me."

"No, go. Come back ready to work. I need everyone at their best for this one." He looked at Eliot.

Eliot rolled his eyes again, said, "Fine. See you later," and left, slamming the door behind him.

His room was right down the hall from Nate's. He looked longingly at the bed — he was exhausted. But his nightmares were loud, and he didn't want them to hear. He opened the doors to the balcony that overlooked the city.

It was a beautiful night in San Lorenzo. Eliot shook his head. The nights were always beautiful. It was the memories that were ugly.

.

.

.

Eliot spent the night in the tiny room with eyes closed, head pounding, stomach churning, mind whirling. He didn't dare sleep. The Loud Commander was standing guard outside his door. He knew this because everything the man did was loud: coughing, moving, shifting, standing, _breathing_. How in the world someone could breathe so loudly was beyond Eliot.

He couldn't have slept even if he tried. He was exhausted, but when he closed his eyes, he saw them all, heard them, felt them. So he occupied himself with deciding what he should do. Flores had given him three options.

One: stay and give them information in return for protection. If the Loud Commander was any indication of the rest of Flores's men, Eliot would probably be safer turning himself in to Moreau right now. And why would he give them information for nothing?

Two: pretty much the same as option one, but apparently less permanent. He thought Flores was just being kind when he gave him three options instead of two.

Three: leave now. He could easily take the Loud Commander, but he wasn't sure how many others he'd run into on his way out. Hell, he didn't even know where he was — there was no window in the small room. He might not even be in San Lorenzo anymore. He had no way of knowing.

Flores had promised him he could leave if he wanted. Maybe he was serious. That would be the best option: leave now before any further damage was done, before he'd lost too much time getting out of the country — except that he had nothing: no passport, no papers, no money, nothing. He left Moreau with the clothes on his back, and he couldn't return to his condo; they'd surely have tossed the place by now. He could make it work, but his chances were slim.

_My chances were slim the minute I didn't fire a bullet into the man's brain_. He just had to resign himself to the fact that he didn't have long to live, no matter what he chose. It didn't matter much who finished him.

_You have a lot of blood on your hands, Eliot Spencer. But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of doing good. _The words kept coming back. Doing good? He wasn't capable of anything but death and destruction. He could never hope to be the man Flores described.

_Doing good_ ... He didn't even remember what that looked like, or felt like. He barely remembered, what seemed like an eternity ago, joining the service and fighting for God and country, for the greater good. _Good._ The opposite of evil. _The opposite of me._

What good could he do? Give them information? About what, Moreau's organization? Hell, he didn't even know everything that went on. Moreau kept it that way, to keep people from doing exactly what Eliot was being asked to do.

But he did know things: the way Moreau worked, the clients he moved money for, the people he used. But surely Flores knew all of that already? What could Eliot offer them?

The door opened and Flores walked in. "Good morning," he said cheerfully. He had a plate full of food. The smell nearly made Eliot vomit.

"You should eat something. My wife made this, bacon and eggs, and homemade bread." When Eliot refused to look at him or the food, Flores said, "You must be starving. You threw up everything in your stomach last night. "

"M'not hungry."

"Now you're acting like my daughter. She's sixteen. Do you want me to tell my men that the great Eliot Spencer refuses to eat, just like a teenage girl?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. _It's gonna take more than that to get me to eat something that I didn't see prepared, old man. _As if reading his thoughts, Flores shrugged and started eating. "You know, they're betting you'll leave. All of them. Not one of them thinks you'll help us. Except for me."

Eliot looked at the bread. He _did _need to eat, and it was probably the only thing on the plate he might be able to keep down. Flores offered him some and he took it, nibbling on it until he was sure his stomach could take it.

"So," Flores started. "You spent all night agonizing. Have you made a decision?"

Eliot chewed silently. He didn't have an answer.

"I'd like you to come with me to our meeting. Every morning my commanders and I meet to discuss strategy. You don't have to say or do anything. Just listen. If you want to leave after that, I won't stop you. They all think you'll leave, but I think they're wrong. I think you've been considering my offer, and I think you'll help us. And not because you want any protection."

Eliot frowned. "And what makes you think I'll help you for nothing in return?"

Flores smiled. "Help me prove them wrong."

"You didn't answer my question."

"And you didn't answer mine. Have you made a decision?"

"No. What makes you think I'll help you for nothing?"

"Just a hunch, I suppose," Flores smiled.

The door opened and the loud Commander entered. "General, we're gathering now. Do you need anything?" Eliot flinched — his head pounded at every word. The loud Commander glared at him, and Eliot knew he was talking loudly on purpose.

"No, I'm on my way." Flores got up to leave. He turned to Eliot and said, "What was the name of William Perez's ten-year-old daughter?"

"Anna," Eliot said, without thinking. _How could he forget?_

"They're betting you won't come," Flores said again. "They think you'll leave without helping us. They think you don't care about anyone but Eliot Spencer."

Eliot looked into those kind eyes, and he saw something he hadn't seen before. _Hope._

"Help me prove them wrong."

.

.

.

Eliot sat next to Flores at the head of a long table. There were about a dozen men gathered around it, including the loud Commander and the soft-spoken man from last night, and all eyes were on him.

"You don't have to talk, just listen," Flores whispered to him. "And if you want to ingratiate yourself to them, you should address me as General Flores or General."

For the first time in a long time, Eliot was frightened.

Flores stood and spoke. "Good morning, gentlemen. I know it's been a long night for us all, but I'd like to hear progress reports. Colonel Escobar?"

The soft-spoken man from last night — Colonel Escobar, apparently — addressed the table. "Yes, sir. The six men injured last night are doing well, but as you ordered, three will stay in the hospital for the rest of the week. They aren't too happy about having to pretend their injuries are greater than they are."

Eliot frowned. _What's the point of that?_

"They'll live," Flores said dryly. "It makes the story more believable. What about the public? How did they respond to the story we gave them?"

"Well, sir," another man spoke up, one Eliot had never seen before. "They seem to be buying the story. We know word's gotten back to Moreau, but he doesn't seem to be buying it — not yet anyway. Men have searched Spencer's condo to ensure he's not hiding out there, and there are guards at every border checkpoint out of the country."

_I should have left last night. I could have been out of the country before they even knew I was gone._

"Are they looking for Spencer?" Flores asked.

"Actually, no," the man said. "They seem to be tightening security so the public won't leave. Moreau seems to have expected Spencer to succeed, so he's panicking." The man chuckled. "Apparently, he thinks that without the Rottweiler, he might not be able to keep people in line anymore."

"Interesting," Flores said. "Have they asked to see a body yet?"

_Body? What body?_

"Yes, and we're going to have to give a reason why we can't provide one. Frankly, if we can't give them something, they're going to start to think we're lying."

_Lying? _"Keep working on it. I want three options by this evening."

"Why don't we just give them Spencer and be done with it?" the Loud Commander asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"I've given plenty of reasons for why that is _not_ a valid option, Commander, so I'd appreciate it if we could let the topic drop," Flores said firmly.

Eliot blinked. "Did you announce that I'm dead?"

Flores smiled. "Of course. We certainly weren't going to tell the truth, and it's to the benefit of the people that they think Moreau is handicapped." He beamed at Eliot, as though he was the kid at the back of the class who never raised his hand, but had just answered the teacher's most difficult question. He turned to the room again. "Do we know who Moreau will tap for Head of Security?"

The Loud Commander started, "We have a few candidates, but we're not certain —"

"It's Chapman," Eliot said.

The room fell silent and all eyes turned to him. "You're sure?" Flores asked him.

"Yes."

"How do you know?" the Loud Commander asked.

Eliot's eyes dropped to look at his hands. They were shaking. "Trust me, I know."

"_Trust you_?" the Loud Commander exclaimed. "You want us to _trust_ you? You injure six of our men, enter the General's bedroom with a gun, nearly kill him, and you want us to _trust you_? Excuse me if that doesn't fill me with confidence." He turned to Flores. "General, I think that this entire situation is ludicrous. Eliot Spencer tries to kill you, and at the last minute he just happens to have a change of heart? Does no one think that sounds suspicious? And less than twelve hours later he's sitting here, in our strategy meeting, listening to how we're dealing with the situation! We know what he's done, why are we believing him? He killed the Perez family!"

"But not according to Moreau's orders. We thought it was suspicious from the beginning, and what he's told us has confirmed —"

"I think the entire handling of this situation is irresponsible," the Loud Commander interrupted. "How many people —"

"That's an awfully disrespectful way to address a general," Eliot said quietly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. The room fell deadly silent, and for a second no one breathed. The Loud Commander stood mouth agape.

Eliot turned to Flores. "You were saying, sir?"

Even Flores was speechless for a moment. He gave Eliot a look of surprised amusement before continuing, "Um, yes, as I was saying, Commander, we were suspicious from the start when we found the Perez family. It did not fit Moreau's usual pattern."

"You mean Spencer's usual pattern," the commander countered, subdued but not beaten. "And no, it didn't fit the pattern. Moreau has never targeted an entire family before. The _children_ were killed!"

"And Spencer has told us that Moreau had ordered something much worse — the same treatment Maroni received."

The Loud Commander was momentarily speechless. "Spencer told you that — and you believe him? How do you know this isn't a ruse —"

"Why would I lie about something like that?" Eliot asked.

"I don't know, you tell us," the commander replied. "Why would you kill six children in cold blood?"

Eliot didn't want this. He hadn't intended to speak, but the commander's disrespect toward General Flores had irritated him. Flores was in charge, who did this uppity kid think he was? And now he was interrogating Eliot.

"I had to," he said quietly.

"You _what?!_ Did you say that you _had_ to kill six children? What could possibly justify that?"

"As I said, Commander," General Flores said, "Moreau had ordered Spencer to perform the same acts as on Maroni, and so Spencer decided to —"

"That's not true," Eliot said. The room fell silent again, but he couldn't raise his eyes. He continued to stare at his hands — he couldn't steady them. _This is why you're here — to help them. Prove them wrong._ They needed to know who the true monster was in this story, and for once it wasn't Moreau. "That wasn't why I disobeyed the orders. It was ... something worse."

The soft-spoken Colonel Escobar asked, "What could possibly be worse than the Maroni treatment?"

Silence.

_They're waiting for you to answer. _The bile began to rise in his throat. He couldn't even think about it without vomiting. But he had to tell them. They had to know.

"Eliot," Flores said quietly. "What did Moreau order?"

Eliot realized his grip on the table was so tight his knuckles were white. The table itself was starting to shake.

"It wasn't Moreau ... Chapman ..." he choked out. "He was going to ... the girls ... he —" He gulped, pulse racing, breath shallow. "He — He _wanted_ them."

There was a collective gasp around the table as Eliot's words sunk in. For a second, no one spoke. Then the silence was broken by a loud bang.

Eliot turned. The Loud Commander had hit the table with his fist. Except he wasn't loud and arrogant anymore. He was standing, but his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table was familiar to Eliot, and his eyes — for the first time, Eliot looked into the boy's eyes. His face was young — he couldn't be more than twenty — but his eyes were old. They were filled with pain. Eliot wondered what — he knew who — could have happened to cause someone so young to suffer like that. He looked around the room to find everyone's concerned eyes on the commander. Colonel Escobar put his hand on the boy's shoulder and said gently, "Pete ... let's go for a walk ..."

"No," the boy rasped. "I want to hear the rest." He shrugged off the man's hand and looked Eliot in the eyes. Eliot saw the pain, but it was different from his own. He couldn't pinpoint it. "Chapman?"

Eliot nodded, looking the boy, Loud Commander Pete, in the eyes. He couldn't look away.

"He's going to be Moreau's new Head of Security ... General ..." Pete looked to the General with pleading eyes.

"Yes," the General said quietly. "Yes ..." He was lost in thought for what seemed like an eternity, then said abrubtly, "You're all dismissed. We'll meet again this afternoon."

Everyone got up to leave except Eliot and the General. Eliot kept his eyes on Pete until he left the room.

He turned to the General. "What …?" He couldn't even form the question.

"That, Eliot, is something Pete will have to tell you himself when the time is right."

Eliot nodded. It wasn't the General's story to tell. But he knew one thing for sure. Commander Pete had just made up his mind for him. He was staying.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Eliot woke suddenly to the sound of giggling. Wait, woke? _Was I asleep?_ He was sitting in the chair on the balcony of his hotel room in San Lorenzo. Memories of Pete were not exactly his idea of a good night's sleep, but they sure beat the hell out of waking up screaming in terror.

He wasn't happy at the thought of falling asleep out in the open on the balcony, though. It was incredibly insecure, and if Moreau found out they were here …

He heard the giggling again, closer this time — on the next balcony over. It was a very distinctive giggling.

"Wow, that was great!" Parker said. "I had no idea that I could have so much fun without stealing something!" She was slightly out of breath.

Then Hardison spoke, gasping for air. "Hehe, I told you. But damn, woman, I'm out of shape, you shoulda slowed down!"

Eliot's eyes widened in horror. _Christ … Is "pretzels" … their code work for sex?_

"Well you should have stayed still, silly! I told you that if you kept wiggling we'd set off the motion sensors!"

"Wiggling?! Of course I was wiggling, what the hell did you expect?"

_Motion sensors?! Parker's a fucking exhibitionist!_ He tried in vain to push the images from his mind, but didn't succeed until he heard his own name come up in conversation.

"… Eliot?"

_Shit!_ Had they seen him? The sky was starting to lighten and Parker had eyes like a cat. He silently slid down to the floor of the balcony. The vertical slats of the railing were wide enough that they couldn't see him.

"What about him?" Hardison asked, sounding as though the change in conversation had just burst his bubble.

"Have you noticed he's been acting weird lately?"

"Not particularly, no …" Hardison mumbled. He sounded as though this was the last conversation he wanted to be having.

"Sophie and Nate said he looks really tired. And I talked to him on the plane, and I scared him! Like, he made this weird squeaking noise, like this —" She made the noise, and Hardison snorted. "Right? I've only ever scared him once, when he was the Fiddle, so I know something's wrong. He said he was worried about his friend the General."

Hardison must have reacted, because she followed up with, "He says it's not your fault, and that he didn't mean to yell at you. He was just scared for his friend."

"He's just saying that," Hardison said bitterly. "He has no idea if it's my fault because he has no idea what's involved with securing a phone call. He just knows it's my job and I fucked it up."

"But you didn't. You said that Manticore is practically impossible to hack. You couldn't have —"

"Eliot doesn't understand any of that, Parker. He just knows that I didn't do my job and now his friend's in jail. And it doesn't matter how much he says it's not my fault. I saw the look on his face. He blames me."

Eliot put his head in his hands. He should've talked to Hardison on the plane.

"Sophie says that Eliot only ever blames one person when things go wrong — himself," Parker said.

_Dammit, Sophie, stop telling Parker things like that!_

"Whatever," Hardison mumbled.

"She also said that you're having trouble forgiving him," Parker said.

"Dammit, Sophie needs to stop talking about people behind their backs!" Eliot almost smiled at Hardison's outburst — almost. "She doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about!"

"Yes she does," Parker said defensively. "She reads people for a living. And even I know that you're still mad at him for what happened in the pool."

Eliot's stomach did a somersault. _Fuck. _He'd never gotten a chance, what with the bomb and pretending to kill Atherton, to talk with Hardison about that. And since the warehouse, he'd been so focused on himself … A pain sliced through his heart. How could he have been so selfish? He'd let his best friend nearly drown at the bottom of a pool, and he hadn't even explained his reasoning.

"Let it go, okay?" Hardison snapped.

"Alec," Parker said softly. "You know Eliot would never let anything happen to any of us, right?"

Hardison didn't say anything — and that said everything.

Eliot's heart broke. Hardison no longer trusted him. He'd betrayed his best friend. And that, in his eyes, was the worst sin he could have committed. He was shaking, and he felt like he was going to vomit.

"Sophie said you should talk to him," Parker said quietly.

"Will you shut up about what Sophie says?!" Eliot winced at hearing his best friend talk that way to the girl he loved. He'd never heard Hardison snap at Parker like that. _Because of me._

Parker must have reacted in some way, because Hardison backtracked immediately. "I'm sorry, Parker," he said gently. "I'm not mad at you. I just — I don't know what to do."

"Talk to him!" Parker urged. "It'll make you feel better."

"Yeah, 'cause he's been so damned talkative lately. Hell, we've barely seen him since we got back from D.C., and when we do see him, it's like he's just going through the motions. He hasn't teased me about computers or made comments about my orange soda. He hasn't even said, 'Dammit, Hardison.'" Hardison's voice broke.

_Dammit, Hardison,_ Eliot thought. There were tears in his eyes. He'd been so focused on hiding his relapse from the team, hiding the fact that he was still "that man", that he hadn't noticed the man he was turning into. It was a good thing he was leaving; the team didn't deserve this. But he was going to make it right before he left.

"It's like Moreau stole my best friend and replaced him with a robot," Hardison continued.

A lump formed in Eliot's throat. _You're not wrong, Hardison._

"I just want _our_ Eliot back …"

Eliot couldn't take it anymore. As quietly as possible, he crawled back into his room and locked himself in the bathroom. He turned the shower on as hot as it would go, letting the water burn his skin. He didn't know what was worse, thinking about Pete or thinking about Hardison. This was why he had to leave. He couldn't just forget what he'd done. He could no longer look his team in the eyes. He had never hated himself more than he did now, because he'd let it happen again.

The memories came to him in flashes: Pete laughing … Maria looking radiant in her wedding dress … the look on the General's face when Eliot told him he was leaving, that he had no choice … He realized with a pang he hadn't seen any of them in nearly ten years. The pang grew sharper as he thought about how long it would be before he saw his team again. Ten years? Never? He'd promised himself last time he wouldn't let anyone in again. When he left San Lorenzo, he'd locked his heart away, deep, deep down in his chest. He'd built up walls, kept his distance. He'd worked alone so he'd never have to worry about anyone getting too close.

Until that bastard Dubenich had made him an offer he couldn't refuse. One night, three hundred thousand dollars, and all he had to do was work with a couple of other thieves and Nathan Ford? Easiest money he'd ever make. One show only, no encores.

But then the asshole had tried to kill them, and Eliot had gotten sucked into Nate's Robin Hood fantasy. He had finally understood what Juan meant when he'd said _"that doesn't mean you can't do good."_ He'd tried to keep them at arm's length, to build the walls higher, bury his heart deeper, to not let them in.

But they were thieves. They didn't need him to let them in. They found their own ways in. They'd plotted, and hacked, and grifted their way in; they'd scaled the walls and picked the locks. He hadn't given his heart away this time — they'd stolen it. And the worst part was, he'd enjoyed every damned minute of it.

_They can keep it,_ he thought, turning off the water. He didn't want it anymore. Things would be easier without it.

He was done.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"… Maybe he's still sleep —"

As Eliot walked in, Sophie stopped talking and flashed her brightest smile. "Good morning. Did you get some rest?"

Eliot responded with a fake smile of his own. "Actually, I did, thanks." He would at least pretend things were normal. He owed them that much.

It was obvious by the looks on the team's faces that they weren't buying it. Whatever they had been hoping to see in him — _A good night's rest? Happiness? _— they were all clearly disappointed, with the exception of Hardison, who refused to even look at him. Eliot's heart twinged.

"Hardison, one of these days you're going to have to teach me how to set the alarm on my phone. I thought I set it for eight AM, but apparently not…" Eliot cringed. What the hell was he doing? _Certainly not helping._

Hardison didn't even look up from his screen. "Yeah, sure."

Eliot sighed._ Just shut up and do your damned job, Spencer._

Nate started talking and walked them through the points of his plan. It wasn't bad, actually. Steal the election right out from under Moreau. He just hoped Nate had at least the whole alphabet of back-up plans.

He and Parker were supposed to go to the Tombs, where the General was being held, and break him out. As Eliot was showing Parker the blueprints, he realized that if they succeeded, Juan would now tell everyone Eliot had saved his life three times, instead of just two.

.

.

.

As Eliot entered the room for the daily morning meeting, he knew right away that something was wrong. He'd only been with Flores's freedom fighters for a little over a month, but he had been in enough of these meetings to know when there was bad news. This time it concerned him.

"What's happened?" he asked as all eyes in the room watched him sit down.

The General and Colonel Escobar exchanged a look.

"What?" Eliot said again.

The General sighed and said, "Moreau knows you're alive."

_Fuck._ He'd been expecting this for weeks, but it still made his heart leap into his throat when he heard the news.

"He knows I'm here?" he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Yes," Escobar said. "It seems he may have known for a while now, but we just learned about it today."

Eliot tried to stay calm. "Do we know how he found out?"

"We have some theories," the General said hesitantly. "None of them good."

"Let me guess — a mole?"

"Exactly," the General said.

Eliot nodded. That had been his theory for a few weeks now. "That would make sense. Over the past couple of weeks, all of our recons and strikes have been intercepted, almost as if they were expected. Plus, when I was with Moreau, I remember him mentioning information he'd received from inside your organization."

Escobar's eyes darkened. "Really? Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because I wanted to make sure I was right before I got anyone worried."

"Or maybe because it's you."

Eliot looked across the table. Loud Commander Pete Fucking Rodriguez. Even though Rodriguez had been the reason Eliot decided to stay, he had been a pain in Eliot's ass the entire time. He didn't trust anything Eliot had to say, and always had some reason for why Eliot was the bad guy. Eliot understood some animosity; none of the men had exactly warmed up to him since he'd arrived, but they all at least acknowledged that he'd helped them on several occasions by providing pertinent information. Not Rodriguez. Everything Eliot said was a chance for him to express his displeasure at Eliot's very presence.

"Seriously?" Eliot asked. "Think about that for a second, Rodriguez. If I was the mole, why the hell would I suggest that there might be a mole?"

"I dunno, to divert suspicion?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Right. And the mole I just referred to as being in the organization before I got here?"

"A lie," Rodriguez said.

"Uh-huh. So let me get this straight." Eliot let the sarcasm drip from his voice. "Moreau wants me to be a mole, so he sends me to kill the General, on the off-chance that I maybe get through, even though no one has before. He tells me to pretend to have a change of heart, and try to get accepted into your ranks, on the assumption that the General, with a gun pointed to his head, will believe Moreau's Head of Security when he says that he wants to defect. As soon as I get here, he tells me to start giving away information in an obvious way. Then, more than a month later, Moreau lets it leak that he knows that I wasn't killed in the attempt, in order to have me suggest that there might be a mole, so that no one will suggest that I'm the mole that I brought up in the first place? You realize how ludicrous that sounds, don't you?"

"It's not any more ludicrous than you asking us to believe that you had a change of heart about killing kids, but decided to kill the kids anyway to keep them from being killed."

"That's not —" Eliot breathed. Rodriguez knew which knives to twist, and it hurt every time. "Go to hell, Rodriguez. You're a fucking moron."

"Fuck you, Spencer —"

"That's enough," the General commanded. Eliot could tell that the he was getting tired of moderating the very public arguments between him and Rodriguez. "Given what's happened over the past few weeks, it seems highly likely that there is a mole. We need to be careful what information gets out. Orders and missions don't leave this room until the last possible minute to pull everything together."

"Unless the mole is someone in this room," Rodriguez mumbled.

The entire room rolled their eyes except Eliot. "I agree with Rodriguez," he said.

Silence. Then the room burst into laughter.

"Well don't let this happen too often, boys," Escobar chuckled. "Otherwise we might start to think the apocalypse is nigh."

"I'm serious," Eliot said. "Moreau wouldn't waste his resources on a mole unless he was sure the person could get access to the highest level of the organization."

"Exactly, and that's why —" Rodriguez started, but the General interrupted.

"Commander, that is enough."

"Actually, sir," Eliot said, "I'd like to hear what he has to say, if that's all right."

The General arched his eyebrows. "Very well. Continue, Commander Rodriguez."

Rodriguez flushed beet red. He clearly didn't like the idea that Eliot might be helping him out. "Well … I was going to suggest that we should start investigating. Give people false information, and if the lies get out, we know who the mole is."

"At the risk of bringing on the apocalypse … Rodriguez is right." The room chuckled, and Eliot wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a sparkle of something in Rodriguez's eyes, which were usually haunted and pained. After over a month, he still hadn't been able to find out what had happened in the man's past, but if agreeing with him on occasion might bring a little bit of light back to those eyes, he thought it was worth it — no one deserved that kind of pain. _Especially when he is, in fact, right._

"In fact, I think we need several separate investigations," Eliot continued. "General, you should choose a few people you trust most to conduct independent investigations. If they come up with the same name, then that's the man. If one of them comes up with a different one, he's your man trying to divert suspicion." His eyes met Rodriguez's — there was that sparkle again.

"Agreed," the General said. "You're all dismissed. I apparently have some thinking to do."

As Eliot got up from the table, he winked at Rodriguez. He could have sworn he saw, for the first time, a shadow of a smile on the man's face.

.

.

.

Eliot hadn't been inside the General's mansion since That Night, but he needed to see the General — now.

He'd figured out who the mole was.

Rodriguez had been right. It _had_ been someone in that room.

He knocked on the front door, only to be stopped by the same guards he'd seen That Night.

"I need to see him, it's important," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

One left to find the General, while the other three remained with Eliot. Eliot thought about apologizing for what he'd done That Night, but wasn't sure how that type of apology would sound. "Hey, sorry I knocked you guys out that night I tried to kill the General. Be glad I didn't kill you. No hard feelings?"

Luckily, the fourth guard returned with the General, who didn't like being awakened at three in the morning, again, by Eliot Spencer trying to get into his house.

"What's going on? Eliot, is everything all right?"

"I need to talk with you. Now."

.

.

.

"General, with all due respect, that is a terrible idea." Eliot couldn't believe what he was saying. "If we out him in front of the commanders, he may panic, and there's no telling what he might do."

"I am never safer than when I am surrounded by those men," the General said. "And I want him to explain to us all what he did, and why," he added darkly.

The pain and betrayal in the General's eyes was evident. Eliot hated seeing it; those eyes had always been so kind, so hopeful, so ... trusting. And Eliot couldn't help but feel responsible.

He had saved the worst part for last, but that hadn't made it any easier, to say or to hear.

"Sir ..." he had said. "He was with your son when he died, wasn't he?"

Even after a year, the grief of losing his only son was still fresh. "Yes," the General had said, voice unsteady. "Berto ... He was killed in a firefight …"

"No he wasn't," Eliot had said. It hurt him to say it. "I — I was there. They retreated. I watched them. I heard later that your son had been killed. I had always wondered, but Moreau ... well, he wasn't forthcoming about what had happened."

That was a vast understatement. When Eliot had asked Moreau, the man had smiled and purred, _"Eliot, my friend, you didn't think you were the only weapon in my arsenal, did you? You're just the one I tell people about."_

The General had protested. "Are you saying that he ... impossible! He would never! Berto ... He ..." His eyes had filled with tears, and Eliot's heart broke.

"Juan ... I'm so sorry." It had been the first time Eliot had used the General's first name, but the man was too distraught to notice.

And now he was about to do something reckless. "Sir," Eliot said desperately. "I am begging you to please wait. Don't do anything you might regret."

"I won't regret this, I assure you," the General said darkly. Eliot was actually frightened. He had never seen this side of the General before; he finally understood why Moreau saw him as such a threat. "Get them all out of bed. I want to do this now."

.

.

.

The commanders were understandably confused and worried at being awoken at four in the morning. The mole looked at Eliot, and his eyes flashed. He obviously knew what this was about.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming at such an early hour," the General began. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's not for a happy reason. We have found the mole."

He looked at Eliot expectantly.

_Are you serious?_ He was the last man that should be exposing this person. No one in the room truly trusted him.

But he would do anything for Juan. So he took a deep breath and spoke. "A month ago the General asked me to start looking into who the mole might be. I started to feed you all subtle pieces of wrong information. I followed a hunch, and tonight I figured out who it was." He looked at the man. There was a collective intake of breath.

Escobar looked enraged and scandalized.

_He's good,_ Eliot thought. He had to be, to have hidden in plain sight for so long.

"What?! Absolutely not! Juan, surely you don't believe —"

"Eliot has provided me with a mountain of evidence, starting with the fact that only you were told that the mission would take place tonight. And sure enough, Moreau's men were waiting for a recon team that never came. How do you explain that?"

"This is insane! The three of us were in that meeting, Juan. How do you know it wasn't Spencer?"

"Because it was my idea to feed you the wrong information." Eliot stood with arms crossed, at the General's side. Escobar was not going to get away with this.

"Eliot also informed me ..." The General lost his voice.

Eliot would have to do it. _I'm so sorry, Juan._ "Escobar, you were with Roberto Flores when he died, weren't you?"

The room fell deadly silent. The eyes of every commander were wide with shock and anticipation.

Escobar started to falter. "Y-yes ... I was. He was killed in a firefight."

"Except that he wasn't, Escobar. I was there. I saw you retreat, together, and you were both alive. When I heard later that he'd been killed, I found it odd. I asked Moreau about it, but he was cryptic." Eliot paused. He hadn't gone into detail with Juan, but he needed to now, to draw Escobar out. "He said, and I quote, 'You didn't think you were the only weapon in my arsenal, did you? You're just the one I tell people about.'"

Juan looked stricken. Eliot wanted to hit — no, he wanted to kill Escobar.

Escobar laughed nervously. "Are you kidding me? Berto was my godson! I loved him like my own child!"

Eliot kept pushing. _For Juan._ "But he figured it out, didn't he? He was smart and resourceful. He figured out that you were feeding Moreau information. I remember that firefight. Moreau sent us there on intel from one of his secret contacts. That was you, wasn't it? Let me guess — after you retreated, Roberto accused you of feeding information to Moreau. You tried to deny it, but he wouldn't have any of it. So to preserve your cover, you killed him, and then came home and cried over his body like he was your own child."

He knew how deep he was cutting Juan — he didn't need to hear the details of his son's death, and certainly not in the brusque tone Eliot was using right now. It hurt Eliot to see Juan's reaction, but he had to do it. Not just for Juan, but for Roberto Flores. He had been a truly good man, like his father. His family deserved to know the truth.

"Juan, you can't seriously believe this. We grew up together. I was Berto's godfather. I was there when Maria was born! I was best man at your wedding, for Christ's sake! And Eliot Spencer has been here a few months and now all of a sudden you believe him over me?"

"Explain yourself, then," Pete Rodriguez said.

_Thank God. Someone else believes me._

"Juan." Escobar stood, ignoring Rodriguez's comment. "I would never —"

"Then explain yourself," Eliot growled. "We're all ears."

Eliot saw it in Escobar's eyes the second before he did it, but he wasn't fast enough.

Escobar drew his gun and grabbed the General. He held the gun to his friend's head and said, "Back off, Spencer, or he's dead."

The General was in shock — the twin blows of hearing his best friend admit his betrayal and learning the details of his son's death were too much — he couldn't fight, he just stood there.

The entire room drew their guns and pointed them at Escobar, except for Eliot. He hadn't carried a gun since That Night. He had always disliked guns, but it was only recently that he had refused to carry one.

He did, however, carry knives. About half a dozen, hidden on his person: one in each boot, two in the holster he had taken to wearing recently, and a couple others when he could figure out where to put them. He had expected the shit to hit the fan tonight, so he'd taken an extra one and stuck it up his sleeve before he called in the commanders.

Having a dozen guns pointed at him seemed to jar the General back into reality. "Hold your fire!" he ordered.

"Ignore that order," Eliot said to the room. He realized a second too late how it sounded.

The confusion in the room was palpable, and Escobar capitalized on it. "See?" he smirked. "He's ordering you to ignore the General. What possible reason could he have for doing that? Did it ever occur to you all that there could be a second mole?"

Eliot tried and failed to keep the panic out of this voice. _Do not lose control of this situation, Spencer. Juan's life is at stake._ "He's lying. Don't listen to him. He's trying to save his own ass."

"Save my own ass? My ass is cooked, thanks to you, Spencer. But if I'm going down, I may as well take you with me." In that moment, Escobar's smile was not unlike Moreau's.

"Why — Why would Moreau have two moles?" Pete Rodriguez again. Thank God someone was being rational.

"Good question, Rodriguez. Why would Moreau waste his resources like that?" Eliot challenged.

"Well, he wouldn't," Escobar said, still smiling. He spoke to the room, but he looked at Eliot. "At least, not intentionally. See, Spencer's defection wasn't a complete act. He chickened out at the last minute. Did no one wonder why it took Moreau a month to 'figure out' that Spencer was alive? It was because that's exactly how long it took Spencer to realize he'd made a mistake — and how long it took Moreau to take him back under his wing."

Eliot was frozen in shock. Escobar was spinning a story — a very believable story — and he could tell that the room was buying it. But surely Juan, who had believed in Eliot from the beginning, wouldn't take the bait.

But Escobar wasn't finished. "That's why he outed me. So he could be the mole, get back in Moreau's good graces, and be The Chosen One again."

Eliot winced at the name, but the room saw it as a confession.

"Spencer ... ?" The look of betrayal in the General's eyes told Eliot that Escobar had succeeded. For a fraction of a second he saw his own father, disappointed and betrayed by Eliot's decision to join the service. Then the General was back, and the look in his eyes tore Eliot's heart in two.

"No, Juan, I swear, I would never —" He sounded desperate — because he was.

Escobar laughed. "Oh yes, you would never — the honorable Eliot Spencer, baby-killer. You would never do anything wrong, would you?" His smile was evil as he hit the mark. "Moreau is pleased with your work, Spencer."

Eliot was shaking. How could he have lost control of the situation so quickly? Escobar was good, and he was taking his revenge on the man who had caught him.

"He's lying," Eliot said. His shaky voice barely convinced himself. "He's trying to discredit me ..." He heard how pathetic his own story sounded. The commanders were trying to decide who was the bigger threat. Right now it was Escobar, but Eliot was next. He knew he was done. But Escobar would only get Eliot Spencer — no one else.

He'd be damned if Moreau was going win this one.

Eliot dropped the knife from his sleeve to his hand and threw it at Escobar. It hit Escobar's right hand, which held the gun. He yelped and dropped the weapon. The General took the opportunity to get the upper hand, and everyone rushed in to arrest Escobar.

Except for Eliot. He grasped the table with one hand as he felt a sharp pain in his right side. He looked down. There was a knife — it looked like one of his, but he couldn't be sure — sticking out of him between his ninth and tenth ribs. He looked across the table to where the knife had come from, and there stood Pete Rodriguez. By the look in his eyes, Eliot could tell he was horrified at what he'd just done.

"Spencer — I thought you were —"

"Aiming for the General," Eliot smiled. "That's right ... protect the principal ..." He took out the knife and dropped it on the table — the worst thing to do if you didn't want to bleed out, but that was exactly what Eliot wanted. The red stain spread quickly, and he was already feeling dizzy.

"It's funny," he slurred. "I knew that if someone was going to ... that it would be you ..." He simultaneously resented and respected Rodriguez, who had been the only one to see Eliot as the bigger threat. He smiled — he was already out of breath. "Thanks, Rodriguez."

He collapsed. All of a sudden, Juan was there, and Rodriguez was next to him.

"Eliot!" The General grabbed Eliot's face in his hands. He looked frightened.

_Why? This is for the best._

"You okay?" Eliot slurred. _Protect the principal._

"I'm fine, Eliot," the General said. "Look at me. Stay awake — Get a doctor!" he shouted to no one in particular.

"Juan ... I swear ... I'm not ... in league ... with Moreau," Eliot said, his breathing shallow. _He has to understand that._ "I would never ... do that ... you saved me ..." His head was lolling; he was losing consciousness fast.

"I know, Eliot," Juan said, tears in his eyes. The look of betrayal was gone. Eliot smiled with relief. "I know. Just stay awake, you're going to be fine, we're getting a doctor ..."

"No ..." He had trouble getting the words out; he could barely breathe. "No ... please ... it's okay ... I want this ... it's better ..." He swallowed. "I deserve it ... I'm so sorry ..."

Juan brought his face right up to Eliot's. "No, Eliot, you don't deserve it. You can still do good. Don't give up now!"

Eliot shook his head. "It's better ... thank you ... you ... believed ... in me ..."

He looked at Pete Rodriguez. His eyes were more pained than usual. _Why?_ Eliot smiled at the man. "S'okay ... thanks ... Pete ..."

Then the darkness engulfed him.

.

.

.

The first thing Eliot was aware of was the brightness. _Who knew Hell was so bright?_

Then he was aware of the pain. His right side was on fire. _Yup ... Hell._

Then he heard beeping. A constant, high-pitched _beep ... beep ... beep ..._ that would definitely drive him mad if he heard it long enough. _Odd choice of torture ..._

Then he felt thirsty. "Water," he tried to say. He wasn't sure what sound his mouth made, but he was positive it wasn't _water._ At least, not in any language he knew.

Then he heard a voice. "He's waking up! General!"

_No, it couldn't be ..._

He opened his eyes and saw Pete Rodriguez.

He was definitely in Hell.

He jumped away and his side erupted in pain. He looked for a weapon, any weapon, but he couldn't see one. He didn't even know where he was. The beeping was fast now: _beep-beep-beep-beep-beep …_

"Spencer, it's okay, settle down —"

"What's going on?" _Juan?_

"I didn't do anything, I swear! He just opened his eyes and —"

"Eliot," Juan was right next to him. He placed a hand on Eliot's shoulder. It had a calming effect. The beeping slowed. "Relax. Calm down."

Eliot lay back down and looked around. He was in a small room in the infirmary, attached to a heart monitor and an IV. This wasn't possible. _I'm still alive?_

He looked at Juan, who smiled. "Am I alive? What happened?"

Juan chuckled. "Yes, you're alive. As for what happened," he chuckled again. "Let's just say that my daughter Maria would call you a drama queen."

Rodriguez snorted. Eliot glared at him. "What the fuck are you doing here? You almost killed me!"

Juan chuckled again. "Actually, he didn't ..." More chuckling.

"Will someone please explain to me what the fuck is so damned funny?!"

Juan forced himself to be serious. "You're right. I apologize. You remember what happened?"

Escobar ... Juan as a hostage ... lies about working with Moreau —

He started to hyperventilate. The beeping sped up again. "Juan, I swear, Escobar was lying. I'm not a mole, I would never —" he pleaded.

Juan put his hand on Eliot's shoulder. The beeping slowed down, and Eliot ripped the sensors off. _That's enough of that._ The monitor made one long, loud _BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP_ before Juan reached over and switched it off.

"We know, Eliot. Calm down. We know. Escobar's story, while believable at first glance, did not stand up to further scrutiny."

Rodriguez looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't —"

"Pete fell for the story just like the rest of us," Juan said to Rodriguez, then turned to Eliot, "and misunderstood your knife to be aimed for me, not for Escobar."

"To be fair, there was only a couple-inch difference ..." Rodriguez mumbled.

"And —" The General help up a hand before Eliot could interject. "He threw a knife at you. It hit you between the ninth and tenth ribs on your right side."

_Obviously._

"The thing is…" Juan smiled again. "You were never in any real danger. Pete's knife hit you in a fleshy spot — some muscle and fat, nothing vital. You bled a lot — enough to pass out, but not enough to even need a transfusion."

The General's smile melted away, and his face became serious. "However, your reaction to the wound concerns me." He turned to Rodriguez. "I need to speak with Eliot alone. Please give us the room."

"But you said —"

The General held up a hand. "You will have your turn, Pete, I promise. But I need to speak with Eliot first."

Rodriguez avoided Eliot's eyes as he left the room.

Juan waited for the door to close. Then, "Eliot ... do you want to die?"

Eliot was surprised by the abruptness. He swallowed and realized he had no saliva. "Could I get some water?"

"Of course." The General obliged, but he was waiting for an answer.

Eliot was trembling again. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I ... I don't know."

"Yes you do," Juan said sternly. "It's a simple question. Yes or no?"

Eliot looked at his hands and nodded. He couldn't speak.

"Why?"

It was a simple question, but the answer was complex. He didn't say anything for a long time.

"Eliot?" Juan prompted.

He took another deep breath. "Because I deserve it ..." Barely a whisper.

"Why do you think that?"

Eliot's eyes flashed. "Why do you think?" he snapped.

"I know what I think. I want to hear what you think."

_Damn you, Flores._ "I've done things ... awful things ... someone like me ..." He swallowed. "Someone like me doesn't deserve to be alive."

"Really? And who decides that? Who decides who deserves to live and who deserves to die?" the General asked.

Eliot didn't say anything. He didn't know how to respond.

"Because you know who that sounds like to me? That sounds like Damien Moreau."

Eliot winced. The words hurt. "I decide. I decide if I deserve to live or die. Someone like me —"

"Someone like you saved my life today. Someone like you exposed a mole in our organization, saving who knows how many other lives. Someone like you ..." He paused. "Someone like you discovered the truth about my son's death. Now tell me, does that sound like someone who deserves to die?"

Eliot was silent.

"Eliot." Juan's voice was kind. Eliot looked him in the eyes; they were kind, too. "You have done some truly terrible things. You will never be clean of them. I don't believe that you will ever be able to do anything to make up for what you've done."

A pain seared through Eliot's heart. It was one thing to think that about himself, but to hear it spoken aloud, by Juan ...

"But," Juan continued, "that doesn't mean that you can't do good. It doesn't mean that you aren't capable of becoming a good person. Death ..." He paused again, thoughtfully. "Death is too easy for you, Eliot. You think you deserve death as a punishment? I think you deserve life as a punishment, because no punishment anyone else could come up with could ever be as horrible as the guilt you will feel for the rest of your life."

Eliot met Juan's eyes. They were still kind. They were grateful. They were ... hopeful.

"You can punish yourself much better if you're alive," Juan said. "And you can do good. Why not try to do both?"

Eliot nodded. He had never thought of it that way.

"The burden you carry, the guilt you feel, it's terrible, and it's suffocating. But it's good. It means you have a conscience. That's what makes you different from Damien Moreau."

Eliot didn't know what to say, so he said the phrase he'd never be able to say enough. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Wanting to die? Don't be sorry. Just fix it." Juan stood up to leave, but he paused. "Thank you, Eliot, for what you did today. I will be forever in your debt." He opened the door.

"Wait — What about Escobar? Did he tell you why he did it?"

The General's eyes darkened. "No, he didn't. While I was waiting for you to get out of surgery, he hanged himself."

"Could Moreau have — ? That's how he does things."

"No. No one came or went. He was in the Tombs. Only one way in or out. He did it himself. He was a coward." He spat out the last word.

"Yes he was." Eliot wanted to say something else, but wasn't sure how. "Juan ..."

The General waited.

"Your son ... Roberto ... He was a good man." He paused. "I know it's true because — because Moreau wanted him dead." Juan's eyes filled with tears. Eliot looked away, but continued. "He wanted him dead more than he wanted you dead because the people of San Lorenzo looked to him as their next leader. He was Moreau's biggest enemy. I know because —" He took a breath. " Because he asked me to kill him. He asked me to plan it, to make it happen. But Escobar — I didn't get the chance. I wish I had. I would have liked to have met him. I think that —" He swallowed. "I think that if I had, I'd have been on your side a long time ago. I think he could have turned me against Moreau before ... before I had so much blood on my hands."

He heard Juan move, and he looked up in time to see the man embrace him, tightly. He hadn't been held like that in ... too long. His eyes stung.

Juan pulled away and smiled. "When you're up to it, I want you to come to dinner. I want you to meet Anita and Maria. They'll be more than happy to talk about Berto." He paused. "Maria, she's taken it hard. They were close, and she has no one now ... I think she would like you." He smiled. "When you're feeling better."

He walked to the door again. "Now, I think I'd better let Pete in here before he has a conniption."

Eliot winced. "Juan, I really don't want —"

"Please. He needs to do this. Just listen to him." Juan paused thoughtfully. "He doesn't have anyone either ... I think you would be good for him."

_What the hell? First your daughter, now Rodriguez?_ "Juan, do you hear yourself? You literally just finished convincing me that I don't deserve to die. Do you really think I'm a good role model for the kids?"

Juan laughed. "It's not just the kids that could benefit, Eliot."

.

.

.

Pete Rodriguez entered the room awkwardly. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he sat down in the chair next to Eliot's bed.

Eliot waited, but not patiently. _I'm not Juan._ "You got something you need to say, Rodriguez?"

Rodriguez cleared his throat. "Spencer ... I'm sorry."

Eliot waited what he felt was a sufficient amount of time, then said, "That it? Great. You can go now. I'm exhausted."

Rodriguez breathed in as if preparing to say something, then nodded and got up to leave.

_"He doesn't have anyone."_

Eliot shook his head. _Just let him leave, Spencer._

_"I think you would be good for him."_

_Damn you, Juan._ "Wait." Eliot cringed, eyes closed, as if he'd rather not see the outcome. "Sit down."

Rodriguez sheepishly sat down. He looked like he expected to be chewed out.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Escobar was really convincing, and I thought —"

"It's fine." _Did you really just say that, Spencer?_ "You were doing your job. Protect the principal."

"What does that mean?" Rodriguez asked. "You said it before, but I didn't understand."

"It's a term used in personal security. The principal is the person you're protecting, in this case the General. And that's what you did — or attempted to do." Eliot had still been able to throw his knife, after all. "You were the only one to see me as the threat, not Escobar. That was good." Rodriguez made a face. "I'm serious. If Escobar had been right, I was the most dangerous person in the room. You saw that, and you reacted." He paused. "You did exactly what I would have done."

Rodriguez's eyes lit up and he smiled, as if that was the greatest compliment he'd ever received. Eliot's heart felt just a little bit lighter.

He wasn't exactly sure what to say next, so he tried small talk. "Where'd you get the knife?"

The smile was gone now, and Rodriguez's eyes widened in terror. "I — um — well ... See, I found it ..."

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Where?"

"Um ... in here ..." he said quietly, avoiding Eliot's eyes. "When you ... weren't."

"I knew it!" Eliot exclaimed. "You stole it! I knew I recognized it!"

"Sorry," Rodriguez mumbled.

"No, no sorry. Why did you take it?"

"Well, I saw you with them, when you were showing some of the other guys, and it looked really cool. I actually tried on my own with some kitchen knives, but it didn't work out so well."

Eliot chuckled. "No, it wouldn't. Those knives are crap, even for kitchen knives. A throwing knife needs to be balanced."

"Yeah, I figured, so that's why I —"

"Stole one of mine," Eliot snapped. Rodriguez flinched, which surprised Eliot. He softened his voice. "You could have just asked me, you know. I would have shown you."

"Yeah, but ..."

"You didn't trust me."

Rodriguez nodded.

They were silent for a while. Eliot thought about asking the question that had plagued him for months, but he couldn't bring himself to see the pain in the boy's eyes.

"So how long did you practice with it?"

"Not long. A week, maybe."

"A week? Impressive. You hit me between the ninth and tenth ribs. Fleshy, but lots of blood loss. Enough to disable, but not kill." Eliot tried not to remember that he himself had forgotten that fact.

Rodriguez looked sheepish. "Yeah ... I wasn't aiming for that."

Eliot froze. "What were you aiming for?"

"Your neck."

Eliot's eyes widened. "My neck?! Are you fucking kidding me, Rodriguez?"

"I'm sorry, okay?! I thought you were working with Moreau! You threw your knife, I thought you were going to kill the General! I just reacted!"

"No. No. This is _not_ okay. General!" he yelled.

Juan came through the door.

"Is everything all right?" He looked concerned.

"No, everything is absolutely _not_ fucking all right! Are you aware that Rodriguez was not, in fact, aiming for the spot between my ninth and tenth ribs, but was aiming for my neck?"

The General's eyes brimmed with worry. "No, I wasn't aware of that. But Eliot, I'd ask you to understand —"

"Understand?!" He turned to Rodriguez. "You were six feet away. _Six. Feet._ And you missed?!"

Silence. Juan tried to hide a smile.

"Um, what?" Rodriguez blinked.

"You said you practiced for a week with that knife. How many times did you throw it? Once?"

Rodriguez turned beet red. "Hey! No, okay, I threw it _a lot_. But it took me a while to get it to stick. Like, in the wall."

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's it," he said, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. "Get up. I'm going to teach you. Now."

Juan stepped in. "No, Eliot, you are not getting up."

"General, I don't think you understand. Pete here is a danger to himself and others. I need to do this, for the greater good."

The General smiled and pushed him back down. "Relax. You'll have plenty of time. But you need to rest now." Then, under his breath, so only Eliot could hear, "Maybe dial it down a couple of notches?"

Eliot winked at him. It wasn't _all_ an act. As an expert in his craft, he _was_ offended at Pete's complete lack of coordination. But, he really should be grateful; if Pete had actually _hit_ what he'd been aiming at ...

Eliot sighed dramatically. "I suppose you can be forgiven, since your ineptitude saved my life."

Pete smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, shouldn't you be grateful?"

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Don't push it."

.

.

.

Eliot smiled. He hadn't thought about that exchange in years; it had always been overshadowed by later, unhappier memories. He was struck by how much Pete had been a combination of Parker and Hardison.

He felt a twinge. He really loved all three of them.

"Eliot?"

"Huh?" _Shit._ Parker had just asked him a question.

"I said, are you ready to go?"

Eliot smirked. "Yeah. Let's do this."

To the Tombs.


	8. Chapter 8

_I want to thank everyone who's been reading this so far, and especially those who have reviewed. I'm glad everyone seems to like it so much! I update this every Friday, and, since many of you keep asking/begging, I *promise* I will finish it. quirkapotamus and Valawenel will make sure of that, even if I don't :) Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoy!_

_._

Chapter 8

"Flores — getting him out is gonna be loud, and it's gonna be messy," Eliot told Nate over the comms.

He and Parker were underground, trying to figure out a way to get the General out of prison. But the Tombs were impossible to break into. _Even for Parker._

"Hey, how 'bout this?" Parker said.

_Or maybe not._

Parker banged on a metal panel. "Steam vent," she said. "Welded shut."

_Never mind. _"It's a steam vent, Parker! People don't —" Parker shot him a look. He corrected himself. "_Normal _people don't go — you ca — they feel like — it will _burn _you —"

Damn, that girl made him want to hit things. A fucking steam vent? And yet, he realized with a pang, that's what he loved about her — about all of them, really — and what he'd be leaving behind.

Parker had stopped. "This is it, right here. This intersection, sixty feet below the street."

"You sure that's sixty feet down?" _How the hell can you tell?_

Then Parker opened her mouth and sang a single, long note: "Ahhhhhh!"

Eliot looked around to make sure no one heard her. _Seriously?_

"Yup, that's it. Sixty feet. That pipe!"

_There's something wrong with you. _Shaking his head, Eliot took the monkey wrench they'd brought and unscrewed the pipe.

.

.

.

"Hello?"

"General." Eliot smiled in relief. Juan sounded okay over the phone they'd sent him — alive and conscious, at least — even if he was confused.

"Always full of surprises," the General said, a smile in his voice.

"We're working on a way to get you outta there, sir."

"And my people? The rest of my cabinet. Men I fought with, my ministers. They're down here with me. I can't leave without them."

_Dammit, Juan, don't do this._ "Sir, we can barely find a way to get you outta there _alone_." It would be impossible to break them all out. Eliot didn't even know how many _all_ meant.

"These people you are with now — would you leave any of them behind? Ever?"

Eliot paused. He looked over at Parker, who smiled sweetly. _Damn you, Juan._

"I thought so. I cannot take the chance they will kill these men in reprisal if you rescue me. Leave me here, no matter what." The General hung up.

Eliot was stunned. They had to get him out; they couldn't just leave him there. Eliot knew some of the other men imprisoned down there, and he was positive that they, too, would agree that getting the General out should be first priority.

"You okay?" Parker sounded concerned.

He didn't meet her eyes, but talked into the comms. "Nate, I hope you're having a better day than we are."

"Not exactly," Nate said. Apparently the press conference had gone to hell too.

_Fuck. _Only a few hours in and already their plans had hit a wall.

They started to head back to the surface, when the phone in Eliot's hand rang. He and Parker looked at each other. The phone was a burner, and the only other person who had the number was —

"General?" Eliot answered. It was his turn to sound confused.

"Eliot. I know you're not happy with my decision, but there's something else I need you to do for me."

"Anything." If Juan wouldn't allow him to break him out of prison, Eliot would do whatever else the man asked. He owed him that much.

"I need you to check on Anita and Maria for me."

_Shit. _Eliot had completely forgotten about the General's family. How could he have forgotten about them? This was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that someone had made him realize he had been too self-absorbed for the past week. Maria and Anita should have been his first thought when Juan was arrested. What kind of man was he turning into?

"Where are they?" he asked.

"Is this phone secure?"

Eliot winced at the reminder that he'd fucked up last time. "Yes. Completely untraceable this time."

"I'll text you an address. Hold on."

The phone beeped and Eliot saw the address. His eyes widened in horror.

"They're still in the country? Juan, why the hell didn't you send them away? It's way too dangerous!"

"I tried, Eliot, but Maria wouldn't listen. She said she wanted the babies to be born in San Lorenzo."

_The babies. _He had forgotten Maria was pregnant. Very pregnant. With twins. "Jesus, Juan. How far along is she?"

"She's due in a few weeks."

"Dammit! She shouldn't be here!"

"I know, Eliot. We all tried to convince her — me, Anita, Matty ... She wouldn't listen."

"Is Matty with them?" Mateo Ramirez, Maria's husband, was an old comrade of Eliot's. If memory served, they also had another child, a little boy. He'd be about three years old. Eliot felt a twinge of guilt.

That was happening a lot lately.

"Yes. Matty and Maria, with Anita and Berto."

_Berto. _They'd named him after her brother. Another twinge.

"Okay, I promise to make sure they're all right. I'll let you know as soon as I find out."

"Thank you, Eliot. If there's anything I can do ..."

"You mean other than stop being a martyr and let us rescue you?"

"Eliot ..."

"I know." Eliot sighed. He should have seen this coming. The General would never let anyone risk their lives for him. And as frustrated as Eliot was, he also knew that Juan was right — he'd never leave _his _team behind, ever. "I'll let you know."

"Make sure they know I'm safe, and that ... Tell them I love them."

The words made Eliot's heart hurt. "You can tell them yourself when this is all over," he said, his voice a little huskier than he intended. "But I'll let them know so they don't worry."

"Thank you." Juan hung up.

"Change in plans?" Parker asked.

"Not for you, but I have something I need to take care of. Nate, I'm gonna need the rest of the day to do something for General Flores."

But Nate was in the middle of something. Eliot listened with growing horror.

"... your man Ribera, he's already arrested his main opponent," Nate was saying. "So if anything further were to go wrong with his election like, say, the kidnapping of U.S. citizens ... you just might lose your safe-haven."

Moreau's voice purred over the comms. "Make it interesting, Ford."

Eliot froze. _Moreau knows we're here._

There was no way they'd get out of this alive.

Eliot started to run. "Nate, I'm headed back. We need to pull the plug. Now."

"You do know I haven't hacked into any of the security feeds in parliament," he heard Hardison say.

"Nate, did you hear me?!"

"Yeah," Nate said, clearly in response to Hardison.

_I can't do my job if you fucking ignore me!_

"I should go get on that," Hardison said.

"Do." Nate's voice was strained. Then he said, under his breath, but loud enough for the comms to pick up, "Oh boy, Sophie, what have you done?"

.

.

.

"Dammit, Nate, we have to pull the plug on this now!"

Eliot had pulled Nate out of the main room of Michael Vittori's campaign headquarters for a private talk. They were in a back room of some sort, with a conference table and chairs. Sophie was still talking to the press, and Hardison was backing up her story online. Eliot had no idea where Parker was.

"No, Eliot, we're not stopping just because Moreau knows we're here."

"Just because Moreau knows we're here?!" _How can he be so nonchalant about this? _"Sophie didn't leave a pair of fucking shoes at home, Nate! Our cover's blown! Do you have any idea what he'll do to us? He's watching our every move. There's no way we can pull this off now! We need to leave the country immediately."

"We are not leaving, Eliot. This is our only chance. He won't hurt us during the election. The international community is watching —"

"You think that's going to fucking stop Damien Moreau?! He doesn't give a damn who's watching!" He was starting to sound hysterical, but it was because he was afraid — afraid of what Moreau would do to them. His team. He knew what Moreau was capable of — Nate didn't.

"In this case, he does. The kidnapping of U.S. citizens is too high profile for him to risk. So we have a week. We can do this."

"Nate," Eliot said, trying to reason with the man. "He will _kill _us. But first, he'll —" He couldn't even say it out loud, but he had to. When he spoke again, his voice shook. "He'll _hurt _them, Nate, and make you and me watch. Trust me when I tell you that you don't understand what's at risk here."

"Do you honestly think I don't know what Moreau will do?" Nate said quietly. "I saw first-hand what he was prepared to do when we almost had him in D.C. — and what you had to do to stop it."

Eliot turned away. He hadn't been able to look Nate in the eyes since the warehouse. This was neither the time nor the place to have this conversation. "Nate —"

"Let's finish this. We have to stop Moreau. I know what's at stake. I know we're out of our league."

Eliot turned back to the mastermind and blinked. _Is he admitting there are things he can't handle?_

"But when I think of all the people that Moreau has hurt, and all the people that will be hurt if we don't stop him … I know that we can't just quit. Help me finish this. Please."

Eliot was surprised to hear fear and _doubt _in Nate's voice. He remembered the feeling, when he had chosen to stay with the General — thinking of all the blood that would be on his hands if he didn't help. _But…_"Nate, if anything happens to any of them —"

"I need you to make sure that won't happen. We need to plan for everything. I want plans to get them out if this goes south."

"Us, Nate. Plans to get _us _out."

_These people you are with now — would you leave any of them behind? Ever?_

Eliot shook his head. _Never._

"Yes, but them first, Eliot. Then you, then me. I can —"

"How about you just worry about how to con Moreau, and I'll worry about getting us all out of here alive, okay?"

Nate looked visibly relieved. He gave a quick nod and said, "Right. Okay, first we need to —"

"First I need the rest of the day to take care of some things for the General."

Nate blinked. "Absolutely not. I need you here, making sure nothing happens. And you and Parker need to start working on those other plans."

"And if I'm going to get us all out of here alive, I need the rest of the day to take care of some things." A plan was already forming in Eliot's head.

"Can you be a bit more specific? 'Take care of some things?' I need to know what you're up to."

"Like I said, you worry about conning Moreau, let me worry about —"

"No, Eliot! No more secrets!" Nate said it with such vehemence that Eliot actually took a step back. Nate took a breath, and when he spoke again, he was calmer. "Listen. I trust you to do what you think is best, but I need to know you aren't going to do anything stupid."

"What the hell are you getting at?"

"I need to know ..." Nate paused. "Eliot, promise me you won't try to take out Moreau on your own."

Eliot stared at the mastermind, who, of all things, sounded _worried_. Was Nate actually concerned—about _him_? Eliot swallowed. The man was too damned smart for his own good, but he was wrong in this case. _Sort of._

"No," Eliot said quietly. "No, that's not my plan. Not yet, anyway," he added, and Nate opened his mouth to argue. "Listen, Nate, it's my job to get everyone out alive, to protect the team. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that job gets done. But I'm not suicidal, either. I can't protect you if I'm dead." He paused, then smiled. "It's an option, but it's plan Quadruple-Z, all right? Only if there's absolutely no other way."

Nate let out a long breath that Eliot hadn't been aware he'd been holding. He couldn't forget the concern in Nate's voice … and his heart squeezed as he thought about when this job was finished.

"So what's your plan?" Nate asked.

"You're gonna steal the election, right? Well, I know people here in San Lorenzo. People who respect General Flores, who will support him — or the candidate he supports. So I'm going to rally the troops — so to speak."

"You can do that in an afternoon?" Nate sounded skeptical.

"Well, not exactly. I'll be delegating. To the General's heir apparent."

"And who would that be?" the mastermind asked, eyebrow cocked.

Eliot turned to leave. "You'll see." He smiled. "I'll bring him back with me."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Commanders Eliot Spencer and Pete Rodriguez: Matchmakers!" Pete said with a huge smile as he twirled a knife expertly in and out of his fingers. "Look at us!"

He took a swig of beer and, without looking, tossed the knife to his right. It hit a target on the wall thirty feet away: bulls-eye.

Eliot smiled. It had only been about six months since the Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident, as everyone had taken to calling it — much to the chagrin of both Pete and Eliot — but Pete had made great progress. It had taken Eliot years to get to the stage where he could throw a knife and hit the target without looking. All Pete had needed was some proper instruction. But Eliot would never let Pete know any of that.

He scowled. "Matchmakers? Say that again, Rodriguez, and I'll break your hand. Then you'll have to start your training all over with the left one."

"Hey, I'm getting better!" Pete protested. To prove it, he grabbed another knife and attempted the same throw with his left hand. The point of this blade stuck in the wall, too, but only barely, a foot from the target. The knife vibrated from the force, and fell out of the wall onto the floor.

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "You're a natural," he said dryly, and took a swig of his own beer.

They were in the mess hall. It was late, and everyone else had gone to bed, but Pete had insisted that they celebrate their success with some drinks. Eliot wasn't tired, and Pete was so excited that Eliot couldn't have said no even if he'd wanted to.

"Come on, El, you aren't even a little bit proud of what we did tonight?"

"What _we_ did tonight? There was a distinct lack of _we_ the whole evening, Pete. I did all the hard work. You just sat back and watched."

"Hey," Pete said in mock-seriousness. "_I _was the plucky comic relief." But then he smiled; he was obviously too happy to even pretend to be serious. "That's an essential ingredient of any matchmaking story."

Eliot rolled his eyes, but smiled as he drank his beer.

"But seriously," Pete said conspiratorially. "How scared were you, really?"

"I wasn't scared of anything."

"Oh, right, of course, Eliot Spencer, never scared, got it." Pete winked as though he was rehearsing a cover story. "But really, how scared were you? I mean, you asked the General for his daughter's hand in marriage!"

"Stop saying it like that, Pete! People are gonna start to get the wrong idea!"

Pete laughed. "That's kinda the point!"

Eliot couldn't help but laugh, too. Pete's happiness was contagious. And that's exactly what it was — happiness. He had never seen the man's eyes sparkle like that before, without a hint of the pain that seemed to always lurk there. And that he _was _proud of.

It had all started a month before, when he'd received a call in the middle of the night.

.

.

.

Eliot heard the phone ringing. He'd just returned from a mission, and he was exhausted. He looked at the clock:_3:37 am_. He'd only gotten back at two. But he was concerned, because he never got calls at this hour. He never got calls ever. Not since he'd left Moreau.

"Spencer," he said into the phone.

"Eliot, I need to talk with you."

"Maria?"

He sat up, suddenly awake, and smacked his head on the top bunk. He swore loudly in several languages before remembering the time of night; he continued to swear, but quietly.

"Eliot, are you okay? What happened?"

"Nothing, I just hit my head. Why are you calling? Is everything okay?"

Silence.

"Maria?" he asked, panic audible in his voice.

"I'm fine, I just need to talk with you."

"Can it wait until morning? I just got to sleep —"

"I need to talk now, Eliot, please."

She sounded upset. "Fine, I'll be right over."

He got dressed quietly, still swearing at his throbbing head. He tried carefully not to wake Pete, who had been on the same mission with him and was, if possible, even more exhausted than Eliot.

Eliot hadn't wanted to share a room, but after the Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident, Pete had begged him, and — although Eliot wouldn't ever tell him — Eliot could never say _no_ to Pete. Whenever he said _yes_, the pain disappeared from Pete's eyes for a little while, and that made Eliot feel better than he'd felt in a long time. He was a sap, and he knew it, and it was Juan's fault. He shook his head.

He snuck up to the Flores mansion and knocked on the back door. The guard gave him a look, but Eliot glared at him and the man glanced away.

_It's not what you think ... I hope._

Maria answered the door and ushered him inside.

"You know," he whispered. "If your father catches me here —"

"He'll invite you upstairs for some scotch and a cigar." Maria rolled her eyes. "So shut up."

Eliot couldn't argue with that. Ever since he'd exposed Escobar, not only had he been promoted to the rank of commander — the only non-citizen ever to be given such an honor — he'd become a frequent guest at the Flores house: dinners, drinks, even a party or two. And Juan hadn't been lying when he said that Maria and his wife, Anita, would like him. They _adored _him. They were so grateful to him for discovering the truth about Roberto's death and providing them closure that they had welcomed him with open arms. It actually made Eliot feel a bit uncomfortable — like he was replacing their son and brother. There was no doubt he was filling some void, especially with Juan, who was constantly inviting him for scotch and cigars. But the relationship filled a void for Eliot, too — Juan was almost like a father to him, and it made him feel good to know that someone thought he was a good man. The scotch and cigars didn't hurt either; Juan's collection of Cubans was better than any Eliot had ever seen — or stolen, and that was saying something.

He followed Maria silently up the stairs, into a room he'd never entered before. He knew immediately that it was her bedroom — posters, make-up, clothes everywhere. There _was _less pink than he'd imagined, considering she was a teenage girl, but not by much.

"Maria, what's going on? You sounded upset on the phone."

She turned to him with tears in her eyes. "Eliot, I'm in trouble."

Eliot's heart skipped a beat. "What kind of trouble? Are you okay?"

She sighed and flopped dramatically onto her bed. "Eliot, have you ever been in love?"

Eliot groaned. He should have expected this.

"Maria," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "When I told you that you could call me whenever you needed me, this is _not _what I had in mind."

"You told me to call if I was in trouble. Well, I am!"

"Maria, being in love is not what I meant by trouble, okay? I just got back from a mission, and I need to be up at eight tomorrow, so can we talk about this later?"

She stared at him, her wide eyes brimming with tears.

_I am definitely going soft._

He sighed. "Okay. Who is he? Or she?" he added quickly. She was young, after all.

"That's the problem, Eliot. I — I don't know if I should ..."

He'd been up for almost thirty-six hours straight. He was _not _in the mood for this crap.

"Spit it out, Maria," he said, a little too harshly. He immediately softened his voice and continued, "Just tell me. I promise I won't laugh."

"It's just that —" She looked away, embarrassed. "He doesn't know, and I'm afraid of what he'll think. He probably doesn't even think of me that way. He probably thinks that I'm more like his annoying little sister than anyone he could ever be in love with ..."

Eliot's eyes widened in horror. _Is she talking about me? _The conversation had just taken a turn for the very awkward, and Eliot tried to find a way to get out of it. His heart started pounding. He couldn't believe it. Was he actually afraid of a seventeen-year-old girl?

"Uh ... listen, Maria, maybe I'm not the person you should be talking to about this ... maybe your mother ..." He ran his hands through his hair nervously.

"Oh, she wouldn't understand, she thinks of him as her son, too!" she said dramatically.

Okay, he really needed to extricate himself from this situation now.

"Actually, Maria, listen, Pete got hit pretty hard on the head during the mission, and I told him I'd wake him up every hour to make sure he didn't get concussed, so I should really —"

"It's Matty Ramirez!" she blurted out, eyes closed.

_Wait, Matty? _Eliot froze, then laughed out loud in relief.

Maria looked at him in horror. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

Eliot forced himself to be serious. "You're right, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. It's just —" He ran his hands through his hair again. "Dammit, Maria, I thought you were talking about _me_!"

The look of horror was replaced with one of disgust. "Ew! Eliot, that's disgusting! You're way too old for me!"

"Hey! I'm not _that _much older than you are ..."

"Plus, that'd be like — ugh! You're like my brother, Eliot!"

He suddenly became very serious. "Don't say that, Maria," he whispered. "I'm not your brother ..."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "No, you're not. But this is exactly the type of thing I would talk to Berto about, and since he's not here ..." Her voice broke. Then she looked at him, a fire in her eyes. "Well, he's not here, and he wouldn't want me sitting and moping about it, so I found the next best thing!"

Eliot suddenly felt overwhelmed, and he couldn't speak for a minute. He was honored that she felt that way, but he felt a pang of guilt, as he always did when he felt like he was replacing Berto Flores.

He cleared his throat and said, with a smile, "All right, then. Matty, huh?"

"Yeah." She blushed.

"So, what's the problem?"

"He was Berto's best friend, Eliot."

_Right. _Matty was even more a part of the family than Eliot. When Matty's parents had died, the Flores family took him in. He and Berto — and Maria — had grown up together, almost as siblings. Matty and Berto had gone to school together and joined the service together. They were practically inseparable — or so Eliot had heard.

"Are you afraid he wouldn't approve, Maria?" he asked softly.

"Yes ... but it's not just that," she said. "Matty and I have known each other forever. But he's always known me as Berto's stupid little sister. What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

Eliot took a deep breath. He was terrible at this. "Well, it seems like there's two things at issue here, so let's tackle them one at a time. But first, tell me about Matty. When did you first realize you were in love with him?"

"He's always been around, hanging out with Berto, you know? But after Berto was killed ... well, we got closer. We would talk about him together, and it made me feel a little better, knowing that there was someone out there who loved and missed him as much as I did. And then it kinda ... turned into more. We started talking about other things — I'd talk about school and he'd tell me about what's going on with Papa at work. And then he was away for a while — you remember that mission you guys went on?"

Eliot nodded. He'd noticed Matty had seemed a little down on that mission, too.

"Well," Maria continued. "I missed him. I missed him so much it hurt. And I was so happy to see him when he got back."

She smiled as if remembering. Then she looked Eliot in the eyes.

"And I know I've never been in love before, but I've read about it in books and things, and that's what this sounds like."

Eliot smiled. "Yeah, darlin', that's exactly what love is." He sat down on the bed next to her. "Okay, first thing's first: why do you think your brother wouldn't approve?"

She blushed an even deeper shade of red.. "Well, I dunno, if you had a little sister, and she started dating your best friend, how would you feel?"

Eliot _did _have a little sister, back home in the U.S. But he hadn't seen her in about ten years, and she had been so young when he left ... He pushed those thoughts from his mind. Instead, he tried to imagine how Berto Flores would have felt.

"Well, if my sister was happy, I'd probably be okay with it. And hell, who better than my best friend to marry her? Then he'd really be part of the family, and at least then I'd know he'd treat her right." He smiled. "Something tells me that Berto would be really happy for the two of you."

"Really?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Really." _One down, one to go. _"Okay, now, about Matty. I assume you haven't told him how you feel?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Every time I try, I get all tongue-tied and can't breathe! I'm so scared that he'll laugh, or tell me he doesn't feel the same way, or look at me with disgust like I'm just his kid sister." She hung her head.

Eliot sighed. "Well, I'm not sure how much I can help you with that one, Maria. You have to tell him sometime, and there's always going to be a risk that he doesn't feel the same way."

"What will I do if he doesn't?"

Eliot chuckled. "It'll hurt, and you'll cry. But then you'll find someone else. You won't be alone, darlin'. If you don't have your heart broken at least once, you won't know the real thing when you find it."

"Have you had your heart broken before?"

Eliot's heart squeezed, as if in memory of the pain. He pictured Aimee, married and happy with someone else ... He had to take a few breaths before he could talk again.

"Yes," he said. "Yes I have. It hurts like hell, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't still hurt." He paused. "But it would hurt more to never have tried at all."

She nodded. "So what should I do? Just tell him? How?"

"You'll find the words when the time is right." He touched her chin and raised her face so that she looked into his eyes. "If he doesn't feel the same way, he's an idiot. And I'll definitely kick his ass for you."

But Eliot knew Matty; he smiled inwardly as he realized that kicking his ass probably wouldn't be necessary.

She smiled. "Thank you, Eliot.

"She hugged him, tightly. The Flores family were big on hugging. It never ceased to surprise Eliot when they did it, but he liked it.

He held her tight. "Of course, sweetheart. I hope I did your brother proud."

"You were perfect," she said. Then she stretched and gave a large yawn. "I'm tired. It's a good thing I don't have to get up early tomorrow!"

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, how lucky for you ..." he mumbled. It was almost five. He had to get up in three hours. "I gotta go. Your father's gonna expect a report first thing, and he won't be too happy if I can't even stay awake through it."

"Just tell him you were here with me, he'll understand."

"Yeah, somehow I don't think so ... I'll see you tomorrow, kiddo."

As he left, she said, "Ugh, I can't believe you thought it was you. That's disgusting ..."

The next morning at breakfast, he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Where did you go last night?" Pete asked. "I woke up and you were gone."

"Gee, dear, so sorry. Next time I'll leave a note."

Pete sighed and said with mock-concern, "Is that really too much to ask?" Then he lowered his voice. "But seriously, where'd you go? A late night tryst?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I wish ... I was talking with Maria."

"About what? Is she all right?"

"No, Pete, she's in love."

Pete's eyes lit up. "Really? With whom? Spill!"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a teenage girl?" Eliot asked.

"All the time," Pete said flippantly. "Who is it?"

Eliot sighed. "Matty."

Pete smirked. "You don't say ..."

Eliot could tell by the look in his eyes that Pete was plotting something.

He was _so _not in the mood for this.

"What's goin' on, Pete?"

"Well, two nights ago, Matty and I went out drinking."

"Wait, without me?" Eliot frowned. The three of them always went drinking together.

"Yes, El, without you. Matty said —"

"Why without me? I wasn't on duty or anything …"

"El, this story isn't about you!" Pete rolled his eyes. "Matty asked me specifically because he said he needed my advice on something. So we had a few — I think he had to get his courage up." He chuckled. "And he told me he was in love. With his best friend's sister."

Eliot smiled, then nodded. "I had a feeling. Well good. Then I won't have to kick his ass for breaking Maria's heart."

"Wait, that's it?"

"What, were you expecting me to jump for joy? _I'm _not in love with him."

Pete was literally shaking with excitement.

"Eliot, we have been given a unique opportunity here. We've got to get these two kids together!"

"Pete, Matty is older than you. You can't call him 'kid' ..."

But he couldn't stop Pete's enthusiasm. For the first time since he'd known Pete, he didn't see any pain in his eyes. Only excitement and happiness ... and hope.

"C'mon, El, it'll be fun!"

He could never say _no_ to Pete.

"Fine," he grumbled. "What do I need to do?"

.

.

.

So here they were, a month later, and Pete was toasting their triumph.

"So, tell me, please, what did you say to the General?"

"Pete, that was a private conversation —"

"Oh come on, El, don't be like that! Pleeeeaaassseee?"

God, he was such a child. "Fine."

They had gone to dinner that night for the express purpose of telling Juan that Maria and Matty wanted to get married. The couple had known that there would be fallout, so they'd brought reinforcements: Anita to make sure things didn't get out of hand — as a mother, she had seen it coming long before they had and was ecstatic that they'd finally seen it, too; Eliot to convince Juan as needed; and Pete for "moral support," which really just meant he got to sit back and watch the fun.

Juan had been led to believe that this was just a normal dinner. The plan was to wait for a lull in conversation, and then Maria would bring up the engagement.

But everyone, including Eliot, had forgotten what day it was: nine months ago to the day, Eliot had attempted to kill Juan — or had saved his life, depending on who was talking.

"Eliot, you've saved my life twice now."

"Once," Eliot growled. "That Night doesn't count."

"Of course it counts! I am alive today because of you."

"Sir, if I hadn't been there in the first place —"

"Oh for Pete's sake!"

The tension in the room spiked as everyone looked toward Maria. None of them had ever heard her speak that way to the General. She didn't look happy.

"Maria…" Anita began.

"Will the two of you just stop it?" Maria snapped, ignoring her mother. "This argument has been going on for nine months! Can't you just agree to disagree?"

"Yes," Pete begged. "For _Pete's _sake, please."

Everyone chuckled, and the tension dissipated.

"Seriously," Pete said. "I have to live with him." He jerked his head in Eliot's direction, and Eliot rolled his eyes. "He won't shut up about it!" Then he turned to Eliot and said, "Can't you just agree that you saved his life twice, and move on?"

"Why should I agree to that? It's not true!" Eliot hated all the accolades he'd received for "saving" the General. He didn't deserve them.

"Uh, how about because he's the General?" More than a little annoyance colored Pete's voice. "How is it you're the only person that gets to actually _argue _with the man! Just shut up and accept that you did a good thing — _two _good things — and move on!"

He paused to catch his breath.

"Jeez, Pete, why don't you tell us how you really feel?" Matty said quietly, trying not to smirk.

The room laughed again, including Pete.

"Does it feel better to get that off your chest, darling?" Anita asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"Actually it does, thanks for asking!" Pete responded cheerfully.

Eliot honestly couldn't tell if Pete's outburst had been legitimate, or if he'd made it up to take the heat off of Maria. Either way, Maria jumped back in.

"Pete, you're absolutely right. But why can't the two of you just meet in the middle? Papa says two, Eliot says one. Can't we just make it one and a half and be done?"

Pete and Matty snorted and Juan rolled his eyes, but Eliot said, "I like the sound of that. One and a half. I'll give you one for the —"

"Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident," Matty said with a wink.

Eliot sighed and Pete groaned. It was Matty who had come up with that dumb name.

"Whatever." Eliot continued. "That's definitely one. But the first time counts as a half. You're right, it shouldn't count as nothing, but I don't think it counts as a whole, considering I was the one sent to kill you in the first place. So … once and a half." He smirked. "I like it."

Juan paused, took a sip of wine, and said, "I still say it's twice."

Everyone in the room groaned or rolled their eyes good-naturedly. Juan beamed.

Eliot looked at Maria. Now was the best time. She looked terrified, but Eliot gave her a wink and a nod for encouragement.

She took a deep breath and said, "Papa, there's something I'd like to tell you."

Juan looked a little confused, but not overly concerned. "You can tell me anything, Maria, what is it?"

The room held their breath as Maria blurted, "Matty and I are going to get married."

Juan froze, fork in mid-air. "What?" he said.

Maria took another deep breath and said, more calmly this time, "Matty and I are in love, and we've decided we want to get married."

Juan put down his fork, stunned. "Married? Maria, what are you talking about? You're only seventeen! And ... Matty?"

He looked at Matty, who met his gaze only briefly before he looked away. Eliot couldn't blame Matty; Juan was a second father, a boss, and a future father-in-law all rolled into one. He, more than anyone, had the most to lose tonight.

But Maria had that fire in her eyes again. Eliot smiled. She wasn't going down without a fight. "I'll be eighteen in a few months, and yes. Matty." She grabbed Matty's hand and looked at him lovingly. "We've known for a while now, but neither of us had the guts to say anything. And then a month ago we finally got up the courage to tell each other, thanks to some help." She smiled at Eliot and Pete. "And now here we are. We love each other, and we don't think there's any reason to wait."

Juan glared at Eliot and Pete. "You knew about this?"

Eliot said, "Yes." Pete said nothing, but he looked Juan defiantly in the eyes until Juan turned on his wife.

"Did _you _know about this?!"

"Of course I knew, Juan. It's been obvious ever since Berto died."

"Ever since — Berto —" He couldn't get the words out. Eliot knew trouble was coming.

"Absolutely not!" Juan yelled, standing up. "You are too young to get married, Maria, and you are certainly not getting married to _him! _No. No. Absolutely not. And I resent being ambushed like this!"

He stormed out, slamming the door to the dining room behind him.

Everyone sat in stunned silence for a second. Maria was nearly in tears; Matty looked devastated.

Pete turned to Eliot and mumbled, "You're up."

Eliot stood and looked around the room. Anita nodded at him encouragingly. He took a few deep breaths to relax himself, then followed Juan out the door.

_Oh boy, Spencer, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?_

He walked up the stairs to Juan's study and knocked to let Juan know someone was there, but he didn't wait for a response to enter.

God, he was shaking. He hadn't been this nervous since he'd talked to Willie about Aimee. _And that turned out well, didn't it? _Although, to be fair, that wasn't exactly Willie's fault.

He walked in to see Juan fuming in the corner with a very large glass of scotch.

"Let me guess, you're here to talk some sense into me," Juan said without looking at Eliot. "Well I don't need to hear it from you or anyone else. She's too young."

"How old were you when you got married?" Eliot asked, knowing the answer.

"Irrelevant. Maria's still in school!"

"She'll be graduating in the spring. The wedding doesn't have to be before that. And if it is, what's a few months?"

"What about college? What about her future plans?"

"Did you ask her about that? Because I'm pretty sure she has answers ready for you, and they're answers you're going to like. She's not dropping out, and she's still planning to go to college. She just wants to get married now."

"Why can't she wait until she's older? She has plenty of time!"

"_She _does, yes," Eliot said quietly. "But I think we both know this isn't about how much time _she _has."

Juan turned to face him. "What does that mean?"

"Of the two of them, which one is more likely to die young? She already lost her brother, Juan. She wants to make sure she has enough time to love her husband."

Juan sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "Why Matty? Why couldn't she find someone not at all related to what we do?"

Eliot laughed. "That's not really an option for her. She's the daughter of General Juan Flores, war hero of San Lorenzo. Pretty much everyone she makes contact with is related to what we do. And anyway," he added. "It's not like she made a conscious choice to fall in love with Matty."

"That's another thing!" Juan snapped. "Matty and Berto were best friends! Maria's been like a sister to him! How could he do that to Berto?"

"Again, you're implying that he made a conscious choice to fall in love with his best friend's sister. Matty and Maria grew up together, Juan. There were two ways their relationship could have turned out. This is the second one."

"But, Berto! What would he think?"

Eliot smiled. This was his ace in the hole. The best part was, he didn't even have to make the argument; it was already made, he was just the messenger.

"He was all for it," Eliot said.

Juan looked at him mouth agape. "How can you possibly —"

"Apparently Matty told him how he felt about Maria a few weeks before — before he died." Eliot stumbled slightly, not sure how to broach the topic. "He said, and I quote, 'About damned time! Too much longer and I was going to have to stick you two in a stalled elevator!'"

"My wife and I met in a stalled elevator," Juan said. He smiled fondly, as if remembering.

"So I heard." Eliot smirked knowingly. "He was not only okay with it, he encouraged Matty to tell Maria as soon as possible. Apparently he was ecstatic about the idea of Matty officially becoming part of the family. When he was killed a few weeks later," he said, as Juan's eyes darkened, "Matty decided it wasn't the time. But he and Maria comforted each other through their grief, and then it turned into more." He paused. "Not only did he approve, but he actually facilitated it, in a way."

Juan placed both hands on his desk, bowed his head, and said vehemently, "He should be the one here talking to me, not you."

While Eliot knew Juan didn't mean it as an insult to him, the words still stung. "I know —" he said. "I'm just trying to ... I'm doing the best I can."

Juan looked at him and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Eliot. This can't be easy for you, either, stepping into this role." He paused thoughtfully. "For what it's worth, I'm grateful. Not just for what you've done for Maria, but for all of us ... For me," he added. "I can't imagine anyone else doing this. You really are —" He took a breath, then continued, "You really are the closest thing to a son I have left."

A lump formed in Eliot's throat, and he found it hard to swallow. He looked into Juan's eyes and nodded. He couldn't form words to say how he felt, but Juan seemed to understand.

"What about —" The words came out as a choking sound, and he had to clear his throat and start again. "What about Matty? You practically raised him along with Berto ... I'd think that he would be more like —"

"Matty is going to be my son-_in-law_, Eliot. There's a difference," Juan said sternly.

Eliot smiled. "Son-in-law, huh?"

Juan smiled, obviously aware that he'd just surrendered. He shook his head. "Get him in here. I want to talk to him." As Eliot turned to leave, he said with a twinkle in his eye, "And keep your poker face on, Spencer. I want to see him squirm."

"…And then I came out to get Matty," Eliot finished telling Pete. He took a swig of his beer and looked at the clock. It was getting late. "See? Nothing big." He shrugged.

"Nothing big?" Pete scoffed. "Uh, the General pretty much just called you his son, El, that seems kinda big to me." Then he smiled mischievously. "And you got all teary-eyed when you were telling it. Aw, you're such a softy!"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You happy now?"

"Yes, very. I'm gonna have great stories to tell at the wedding!"

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "About the groom, right?"

Pete's eyes twinkled. "Of course, the groom, right ..." He winked.

Then his smile faded, and his eyes filled with pain again. He tried to cover it up with a chuckle. "Weddings, huh? That'll be fun ..." His voice broke on the word _fun_.

Eliot scowled as a familiar rage coursed through him. It wasn't long after the Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident that Pete had told him what had happened to him, but Eliot almost wished he didn't know. Now that he did, his heart broke every time he saw the pain in Pete's eyes.

Pete had come from a small town in San Lorenzo. His parents had died when he was young; he'd struggled growing up, but he was smart and had made plans to go to law school. He'd fallen in love with Sarah, a girl from his town, and they had gotten engaged.

But Sarah's father had owed Moreau money. Just before Eliot joined Moreau, when Chapman was temporarily in charge, Moreau had ordered her parents killed. Sarah had apparently come home in the middle of everything and tried to fight off Moreau's men. As a result, they had beaten and brutally raped her with anything and everything available in the room. Pete had arrived after Chapman and the men had left, but he was too late. He'd found Sarah in the living room, barely alive, and held her in his arms as she died. The day after he buried her, he'd joined the service to help in the fight against Moreau.

Eliot heard a clink and a crunch. He looked down to see a broken beer bottle in his hand.

"Whoa, there, Bruce Banner." Pete reached to clean up the spilled beer. "You cut yourself?"

"I'm fine," Eliot mumbled. "Who the hell is Bruce Banner?"

"Seriously?" Pete looked at him in disbelief. "Bruce Banner? The Hulk?"

Eliot shook his head in confusion.

"Jesus, El, didn't you ever read comic books growing up? There's something wrong with you!"

Eliot smiled inwardly. Of course he knew who Bruce Banner was. Even if he hadn't read a few of the comics growing up, it certainly wasn't the first time someone had referred to him as the Hulk. But the distraction pushed the pain from Pete's eyes, at least temporarily.

"Hang on a sec, I'll be right back," Eliot said. He ran up to his and Pete's room — in the same building, one floor up — and came back with a bottle of booze. "Here," he said, pouring two glasses and shoving one into Pete's hand. "Something a bit stronger. Some nice Kentucky bourbon!"

Pete laughed and took the glass. "Isn't that where you're from in America? Kentucky, or Oklahoma, or Texas, or something?"

"Or something," Eliot smiled. "To Matty and Maria. And to us — matchmakers!"

Pete forced a smile that didn't reach to his eyes. "Damn right," he toasted, and tossed the drink back in one gulp. Then he reached for the bottle and poured himself a second and then a third, tossing them back in quick succession.

"Okay, you might wanna slow down there, buddy," Eliot said, starting to regret bringing the bottle down. "That stuff's pretty strong."

"That's kinda the point," Pete slurred slightly as he went to pour himself a fourth one.

"Listen," Eliot said, taking the bottle. "If you don't want to be in the wedding, Matty will understand. Just tell him."

"And ruin it for him? No, not over my little problem." Pete snatched the bottle from Eliot and poured another drink.

"It's not a little problem, Pete," Eliot murmured.

Pete shrugged. "I'll be fine. There'll be lots of booze there, right?" He forced a smile, but it was pained.

"You think Juan Flores is going to throw a party and skimp on the booze?" Eliot smirked. "All right, tell you what. I'm gonna talk to Maria and get her to invite all her hot friends from school — that are of age," he added quickly, "and you and me are gonna play the field at the wedding and we're gonna get you laid. Sound like a plan?"

Pete shook his head slowly. "I dunno, El, I'm not like you, you know? One night stands aren't really my thing."

"Maybe they should be," Eliot said. "At least for the wedding."

"No, El ... I mean ..." Pete blushed, and not because of the alcohol. "Sarah and I, we never ... we were gonna wait until ..."

_Jesus ..._Eliot heard another clink, and looked down to find his glass of bourbon had exploded in his hand, too.

"Okay, you know what, enough for you," Pete said. "Now you're just wasting it." He paused, looking deeply interested in his still full glass. "Thank you, though," he said softly.

Eliot frowned. "For what? Wasting the bourbon?"

"No, for ..." Pete sighed. "For just being pissed." He looked up at Eliot. "Most people, they hear what happened, and they just look at me awkwardly, like I'm something to be pitied. But you…" He smiled. "You just get pissed. And then you try to make me laugh or change the subject. It's kind of adorable, you think I don't notice." He paused, and the smile faded. "But it's nice to know I have someone in my corner, you know?"

"I'm always in your corner, Pete." Eliot grinned. "I got your back."

.

.

.

As Eliot pulled into the driveway, he checked the address against Juan's text. This was it.

The little cottage was off the beaten path, out in the middle of nowhere. A perfect safe house.

He took a couple of deep breaths as he walked up to the door.

_They haven't seen me in eight years. What'll they do?_

He took a final deep breath and knocked.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you to everyone for reading, and to all those who left such nice reviews! And a special shoutout to quirkapotamus, who helped to make the Eliot/Hardison conversation much more believable and satisfying. Enjoy!_

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Chapter 10

When Eliot arrived at Vittori's campaign headquarters the next morning, Nate was waiting.

"Well? Where is he? You said he was coming back with you."

"He had to take care of some things first," Eliot said. "He'll be here later this morning."

"All right," Nate said. "Go see Parker and Hardison. I need you guys to start on those other plans."

Eliot entered the back room he and Nate had spoken in yesterday. Hardison had turned it into a full-blown election center, with screens showing local news stations, poll numbers, and who knows what else. Hardison was sitting at the conference table and Parker was standing, but they were deep in discussion over something.

"I told you, Parker, her name is Gigabyte, since she's a thousand times cuter than my dog Megabyte," Hardison was saying. Then he cooed in a baby voice, "Isn't that right? You're so adorable. Yes you are!"

Eliot heard a bark, and Parker said, "No, you can't name her, because she already has a name. It's Sparky." Another bark. "See, she likes it!"

"What the hell is going on?" Eliot said as he walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

Parker skipped over to him, carrying a brown-black puppy. "Here," she said. "This is Sparky —"

"Gigabyte!" Hardison interjected.

"Sparky," Parker continued. "And you have to take her with you to do the news story."

"A news story? With a puppy? What the …?" Eliot asked, perplexed.

"Yup," Parker chirped. "Hardison has a script. It's about dog-fighting in the courtyard of the presidential palace, and you get to talk about Sparky here." She tried to shove the puppy into Eliot's hands, but he wouldn't take it.

"Why do I have to do it? You like her, you do the story."

"Sophie says it has to be you because hot men with puppies attract more attention," Parker said matter-of-factly, placing the puppy on the floor.

"W-what?"

Hardison chuckled.

"Yeah." Parker became suddenly animated, using different voices for Nate and Sophie in the conversation. "Yeah, Sophie said, 'If Eliot does it, more people will watch, because women love hot men holding puppies,' and Nate was like, 'Really? Eliot? I didn't think you were into that sort of thing.' And Sophie said, 'What sort of thing, Nate? Eliot is objectively a very attractive man,' and Nate said, 'You know, like muscles and that Southern gentleman crap,' and Sophie got all huffy and said, 'Nate, I am attracted to all different types of men, and just because you —'"

"T-that's enough, Parker," Eliot stuttered, eyes wide with horror. He did _not _need to be hearing how that conversation finished.

Hardison, hard at work typing on his laptop, said bitterly, "Yeah, Parker, I don't really think Eliot needs to hear how attractive he is. I'm sure he hears about it all the time."

Eliot opened his mouth to say something snarky to the hacker, but changed his mind. Hardison was still upset with him about the pool — and he had every right to be — and Eliot needed to be making things right, not aggravating the situation.

Parker said, "Uh, I think Sparky needs to go outside ..."

"Gigabyte," Hardison corrected without looking up from his laptop. "And what makes you say that?"

"Because she's starting to poop on the floor."

"Dammit, Parker, take it outside!" Eliot yelled, and Hardison said, "That's nasty! Woman, take her out to do her business!"

Parker scooped the puppy into her arms and jumped out the window.

"Wha — Parker!" Eliot said, running to the window. Just as he got there, he heard Hardison say, "There's a fire escape there. That's how she came in."

"That girl is crazy!" Eliot said. "Normal people use doors, not windows!" He turned to Hardison, expecting the hacker to agree with him, as he usually did when Parker did something particularly Parker-ish, but Hardison didn't say anything. He just kept typing.

Eliot sighed. _If you're waiting for the right moment, Spencer, now's the time. _He walked over to where Hardison was sitting and watched him, trying to figure out how to start.

"Hey, Hardison, listen ..."

"Eliot," Hardison said coolly, "I have a lot of work to do, so I don't really have time to talk. Like, at all. And I think you have women to woo by holding a puppy on national television, so ..."

Eliot closed the laptop. Hardison yelped and jerked his hands away. All the screens went off.

"What the hell, man? I got a lot of stuff to finish before the debate tonight —"

"Hardison, we need to talk." Eliot's heart was pounding.

Hardison sat back in his chair, arms folded, and said, "Fine. Talk. I don't have anything to say."

Eliot looked at him. Hardison's eyes were bright with anger, and Eliot flinched inside. He stared at the hacker. He had no idea what to say.

Hardison rolled his eyes and went to open his laptop. "Right, great talk, there, man. Glad you showed up."

But Eliot kept his hand on the computer. "I ... "

He couldn't say anything. He didn't know_ how_.

Hardison met Eliot's gaze and wouldn't look away. His eyes grew wider and angrier the longer the silence stretched on, until he looked like he was going to explode.

Then he did.

"Are you fucking serious?" Hardison yelled. He stood up so quickly his chair flipped backwards. "You can't say it, can you? You seriously have _nothing _to say?"

Eliot's eyes widened momentarily, but then narrowed as his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. His fists clenched; so did his jaw.

"Dammit, Hardison," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm trying …"

"No — dammit, Eliot! You're trying to what? Hmm? You can't even say the word!"

"Apologize!" Eliot snapped. "I'm trying to fucking apologize!"

"Then do it. I'm waiting." Hardison stood with arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Eliot took a deep breath. "Hardison, I — At the hotel, with Moreau ... You need to understand that I would never have let anything happen to you."

"Wha — I'm sorry,_ I_ need to understand? Are you fucking kidding me? No, I do _not _understand! My best friend led me into the lion's den knowing full well what we'd be up against. He stood by and watched as his former BFF boss pushed me, handcuffed to a chair, into a pool. He didn't even flinch. And when I got out, he hadn't moved! Just made that deal with Moreau like it was nothing! I almost_ died_, Eliot_._ I had to suck the air out of the chair because you _didn't _try to save me! So don't tell me that you would never let anything happen to me, because you _did_!"

A strong wave of nausea washed over Eliot, nearly making him double over. He had always prided himself in one thing: his loyalty to his friends. When he let Hardison struggle at the bottom of the pool, he hadn't just conned Moreau … he had betrayed his best friend. And he hadn't even explained himself. Hardison had no idea the agony Eliot had been in, hearing him splash in panic; how Eliot had counted the seconds, had known exactly how much air Hardison had left, had been prepared to sacrifice himself and the whole damned con to dive into the pool if Moreau's negotiation went one second too long … Why in the hell hadn't he told him that?

"Hardison —"

"When we got in the elevator, you said, 'Stick close to me. This might get messy.'" Hardison said quietly. "Did you know what Moreau would do?"

Eliot looked away. This was the hard part. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not exactly what, but ... yes. That's how he does things."

"You're a bastard," Hardison spat, and Eliot flinched. He'd never heard such hate in the hacker's voice.

"Hardison, I didn't have a choice. We had to figure out a way to get into the auction. I knew what Moreau might do, but there was no other way. If I had dived in after you, Moreau would have known something was up, and the con would have been blown."

"Which con? The con on Moreau or the con on us?" Hardison asked. "You're a lot of things, Eliot, but I never expected you to be a fucking hypocrite."

"What?! Hardison, I —"

"You what? You act all high and mighty and get angry when Sophie cons the team to get the Davids. Then, a year later, Nate does the same thing and ends up in prison, and you're pissed at him, too. And now you have the balls to lie to us about your past and walk me into a situation, to risk _my _life, without telling us the dangers? You're worse than either Nate or Sophie. We could have all been killed."

"We could have all been killed the second that Italian bitch made us start going after Moreau!" Eliot nearly shouted. Hardison jumped back. "There was a difference between what Sophie did and what I did. I was trying to protect the team! I was trying to figure out a way where we didn't have to take down Moreau! Moreau shreds anything and everything that comes into his path! It's my job to make sure the team stays safe, and that's what I was trying to do!"

"Well you sure have a funny way of keeping us safe, taking me in there like that."

"What in the hell was I supposed to do, Hardison? The deadline had moved up, we had to hit Moreau that day. I did the best I could — I used my past with Moreau to get us into the room with him. I needed a client, and he needed to think that you were _just _a client. You heard him. He said, 'You work alone'. That's what he knew about me. If he had even an inkling that something was different, that I wasn't who or what I said, we were both dead. And then he would have gone after the team. And then he would have sold the bomb to the highest bidder and thousands or maybe millions of people would have died. I was not about to let that happen."

He continued more softly. "Hardison, I would never have let you drown. I need you to believe that. I knew exactly how much air you had left, how many seconds I had to talk with Moreau. And if I couldn't get it done, I was going to dive in and get you, Moreau be damned. I would have gotten you out of there if it was the last thing I did."

He dropped his gaze and murmured, "And it probably would have been."

Eliot couldn't decipher the look in Hardison's eyes, but he seemed to be processing what he'd heard. After what seemed like an eternity, Hardison asked, "Why didn't you just tell us?"

That was the hardest question to answer, because Eliot didn't have one. "I don't know ..."

"Bullshit," Hardison said. "You made a choice not to tell us. Why?"

"Because I didn't know how!" Eliot snapped. He looked at the floor and whispered, "I thought if I could figure out a way around it, maybe I wouldn't have to."

Hardison sighed. "Eliot, did you really think we didn't know? You hurt people for a living. You used to be a bad guy. Guns and knives and fighting stances are very distinctive to you. It's not rocket science to put two and two together."

Eliot's fists clenched. "No, Hardison, you don't know. You have no idea the things that I've done… the things that I did for —"

"You used to torture and kill people for money. Am I close?"

Eliot flinched at Hardison's words, and not just because of the brusqueness with which they were said. They stung because Hardison was more than just close. He nailed it. Eliot shut his eyes, and he kept them closed. He couldn't look at his friend.

"E," Hardison said softly, "Sophie's right. You don't have to tell us what you've done. Hell, I don't want to know. But don't think for a second that we're naive enough to believe that you were a fucking Boy Scout. You just told me that you knew exactly how much air I had left. Lemme guess — it's because you've done that sort of thing before? Probably for Moreau?"

Eliot turned away, his eyes still closed. _That and much, much worse._

"Eliot." The hacker touched his arm, and he flinched violently.

"Eliot." Hardison's voice was gentle. "What hurts the most is that you didn't trust us. Did you honestly think it would change anything?"

Eliot didn't answer. He couldn't. If he said it out loud, he'd be admitting that it was true.

Hardison sighed. "You really are an idiot, man." His voice sounded annoyed, almost normal.

Surprised, Eliot turned to look at him. Hardison was smirking.

"You just mentioned that Moreau said, 'You work alone.' But you neglected to mention what _you _said in response. I remember. You said, 'Things change.' Well you know what, they do. You don't work alone anymore, man. We're a team." He paused. "We're a little more than a team," he added, almost to himself. "And if you think that anything from your past could change that, then you're an idiot. I get that you didn't want to tell us what you used to do, or give us the details. But you should have told us about Moreau. We would have been more prepared, and so would you."

Eliot didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He knew Hardison would talk again to fill the void.

And it only took a few seconds. "E, you have saved my life I don't know how many times. More than twice, that's for damned sure." He chuckled. "And you're a good person. I've seen you. Not just with the team, but with other, normal people. And with kids." He paused. "Don't think I haven't seen you interact with kids on our jobs. Remember that hospital job? I know you stepped in to make sure that kid wasn't gonna be abused anymore. And the little girl who was arrested for smuggling artifacts for Keller? You talked to her in some foreign language and made her smile." He grinned. "_That's_ the Eliot Spencer I know. _That's _the Eliot Spencer that got handcuffed to me in the woods and kept us alive. That's my best friend, and I honestly don't give a damn what he used to do, because he's not that man anymore."

The warmth that Eliot had felt during Hardison's speech turned to ice as Hardison spoke the last phrase. _I _am _still that man._

"Hardison," he choked, voice filled with emotion. He needed to tell someone, and maybe Hardison would understand ...

All of a sudden Hardison embraced him, tightly. Eliot shut his eyes and let his head fall onto Hardison's shoulder as he hugged his friend back. It had a calming effect; his breathing steadied and his heartbeat slowed. The icy feeling thawed, and he relaxed. He didn't ruin it by telling Hardison about the warehouse. That could wait. He just let himself be held by his friend.

"Okay, this is the longest you've ever let me hug you, man," Hardison said as he pulled away. "I'm gonna stop before you realize what's happening."

Eliot smiled at his friend. Then he looked him in the eyes again and said, "I'm sorry, Hardison. I should have told you all before we went to D.C. I'm —"

"I think maybe you should stop," Hardison grinned, holding up a hand. "I only get a few Spencer apologies each decade, and I don't want you using them all up at once." He paused, then he said seriously, "There's just one more question I have: why me?"

"What?"

"You chose to take me to the hotel with you. Why? Why not Parker or Sophie or even Nate? We all know I'm a terrible grifter." He smirked.

Eliot paused. He owed Hardison the truth. "It couldn't be Nate for obvious reasons. And Parker and Sophie ..." He felt the bile rise in his throat. "Moreau and his men treat women ... differently. You they threw into the pool ... I wasn't sure what they'd do to Parker or Sophie, but I sure as hell didn't want to find out."

Hardison's eyes widened in horrified understanding. After a pause, he said, "If you had told me that from the beginning, I would have gladly almost drowned in that pool."

Eliot smiled sadly. "Yes, you would have." _You're a good person, Hardison. _"But I didn't want you to have to worry about that. Better to be pissed at me than imagine ... that."

Hardison gave a small smile, but it suddenly faded as he righted his chair and sat back down. He fiddled with his hands, as if he was trying to figure something out.

"Eliot," he whispered. His eyes were filled with a fear that ripped Eliot's heart in two. "What — What'll Moreau do, if we fail?"

Eliot gripped the table so hard his knuckles turned white. That was exactly the thing he'd been trying not to think about since they'd arrived in San Lorenzo.

"Nothing," he rasped, "Because we won't fail. And even if we do ... I'd never let that happen … I'd never let him …"_I'd kill you before he could do anything. And it would be the last thing I ever did._ The bile rose in his throat at the thought, and he felt tears sting his eyes. He had to take several seconds to regain control. "I know you probably still don't trust me right now, but believe me when I tell you I will never let Moreau touch _any _of you."

"Any of _us_, Eliot," Hardison corrected softly.

_No, any of you._

He smiled and said, "Exactly. High five. For morale."

Hardison smirked and they high-fived, just as Parker climbed through the window again, holding the puppy.

"Oh good," she said. "Are you guys better now? Because I waited outside for like half an hour, but Sparky was getting tired of it, so that's why I came back."

Hardison smiled. "Yeah, Mama, we're good. Though you didn't have to wait outside, you could've —"

"Man, I'm starving!" Parker said, ignoring Hardison's comments. She shoved Sparky/Gigabyte into Eliot's hands and said, "I really want some pretzels."

Hardison started to say something, but he didn't get the chance before she said, "I'm gonna go get some. See you guys later," and skipped out the window again.

Hardison frowned. "Okay, wrong pretzels."

Eliot shuddered, thinking of the balcony. "Come up with a better code word, all right? I don't think I'll be able to eat pretzels again without thinking of your kinky ..." He shuddered again.

Hardison cocked an eyebrow. "Kinky ... ? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I heard you guys on the balcony the other night, talking about being out of breath and motion sensors and _wiggling_..."

The hacker's jaw dropped. "What the hell, man? You shouldn't have been eavesdropping —"

His eyes suddenly grew wide as he took in the rest of what Eliot had said. "Wait, you thought ... ?" Eliot could have sworn the hacker actually blushed. Hardison looked sheepish and said, "Nah, we didn't ... we haven't ..."

For a second Eliot saw Pete sitting there, talking about Sarah; a second later Hardison was back, stuttering and not meeting Eliot's eyes.

"If you haven't ... then what the hell does pretzels mean?" Eliot asked.

Hardison sighed. "You're gonna think it's stupid ..."

"Hardison, I'm holding a puppy right now, and soon I'm gonna be on national television with it. Stupid is pretty relative."

Hardison chuckled awkwardly. "Well, remember that job we did at the pharmaceutical company?"

"The client who literally ran into us on the street?" Eliot said. "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, she was, you know ..."

"Flirting with you like crazy? Yeah, I noticed." Eliot smirked.

"Really? Oh ... yeah, well apparently Parker wasn't too happy about that, and she —"

"Got insanely jealous? Yeah, caught that, too." Eliot's smirk grew wider.

"Jeez, really? Was it that obvious? Man, why didn't you say anything?"

"Why would I? It's none of my damned business. Plus, Sophie's usually got that crap more than covered."

Hardison rolled his eyes. "Yeah, she did with this, too. Parker had apparently been talking to her and when I came up she did her way-too-obvious-for-a-professional-grifter exit. I asked Parker what was wrong, and she told me she was starting to have feelings for ... pretzels, because there was a bowl in front of us on the bar. So I told her, 'They're here, when you're ready.'"

Eliot smiled. "That's pretty smooth, Hardison." Hardison grinned like that was the biggest compliment he'd ever gotten, and Eliot was once again reminded of Pete. He pushed the memories away. "So I'm assuming she told you she wants pretzels now?"

"Yeah, after we blew up the bomb and we were on that whole we-just-saved-the-world high, she turned to me and said, 'You know what I'm in the mood for? Pretzels!'"

Eliot frowned. "So what the hell does that mean if it's not sex?"

Hardison smiled as he shrugged. "It means whatever Parker wants it to mean. I'm just glad pretzels are on the menu, you know?"

"So why in the hell were you guys all outta breath on the balcony the other night? She was talking about motion sensors and things being just as fun as stealing ..."

Hardison laughed. "_That? _I guess that would sound like sex if you didn't know what we were talking about. She wanted to see the city, but Nate said no stealing, so I went with her to keep an eye on her. Apparently it's not just the stealing that gives her the high, it's the getting in and out undetected. So we went to the museum and just looked at the art and kinda snuck around. She made us hide in a blind spot for too long, and I got itchy and started wiggling. We set off the motion sensors and had to high-tail it outta there. It was fun, though."

"First date?" Eliot asked. "Did you kiss her at the end?"

Hardison looked embarrassed again. "Nah, I don't think she's ready for that yet ..."

"Yeah, probably not." There was an awkward pause as Eliot thought about how stupid he'd been to think that Hardison and Parker's relationship had already progressed to sex. Hardison blushed just thinking about kissing her.

The wriggling puppy in his hands brought him back to the present. "Okay, well, I guess I have to give an interview on dog-fighting ... while holding a puppy." He looked down at the dog. She _was _adorable.

Hardison sighed dramatically. "Yeah, man, I'm really sorry about that. You know, Sophie wanted me to do it originally — hot men and puppies and all that —" He grinned. "But, you know, I'm busy with the campaign and stuff, so I need to stay here. So you're the next best thing, I guess."

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Anything else I need to know?"

Hardison turned back to his computer and the screens lit up again. "It'll be right outside the presidential palace. Just look for the news crews."

"Thanks," Eliot said. He turned to leave, but paused. "Oh, and Hardison?"

"Yeah?" He was back to typing.

"If you break her heart, I'll break every single bone in your body."

Hardison looked up and grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

.

.

.

Eliot smiled as he returned to campaign HQ with the puppy. Sophie was definitely right: puppies and babies were the biggest chick magnets.

He walked into the back room to see the whole team watching the screens filled with his interview, and Hardison saying, "Oh man, this is my favorite part!" and playing the video again.

"... puppies as young as this one right here." Eliot was saying on the screen. "This adorable little thing right here. Hi." On-screen Eliot kissed the puppy.

Hardison clapped his hands together in excitement and turned to Eliot. "Man, that was inspired — so much blackmail material! And Gigabyte played her part perfectly."

"Sparky," Parker corrected as she swiped the dog from Eliot's arms.

"I dunno, I think she looks more like an Emma, don't you?" Eliot asked. Just to annoy them, of course — he had definitely _not _been thinking about a name for the puppy on his way back. Absolutely not.

Both Hardison and Parker looked horrified at the suggestion. Sophie beamed at him, and Nate gave him one of the grins that always made Eliot want to punch him.

"So man, how many women hit on you on your way back?" Hardison asked with a smirk.

"Seven," Eliot grinned. "Including the reporter."

Sophie turned to Nate and said, "Told you. Attractive men and puppies." As she turned back to smile at him again, Eliot suddenly felt very uncomfortable, remembering Parker's version of their conversation.

"This is a hit, Nate," Hardison said. "It's already up on YouTube and it's gone viral. Retweets, shares, likes, already several hundred thousand views ... Hold on ..."

"What?" Nate asked, and Eliot saw a brief flash of worry cross his face.

"Huh," Hardison said. "There's another interview that's even more popular than Eliot's, but I don't know who this woman is."

A video began playing on the screen. In it a woman was saying, "My father is currently being imprisoned for trying to bring democracy back to San Lorenzo. I, for one, will not let Ribera win this easily. My father greatly admires Michael Vittori, and I know he would want all of his supporters to vote for this great man. For those of you who are still undecided, I encourage you to watch the debate tonight. It will be enlightening."

Maria Flores was several years older and nine months pregnant, but her eyes sparkled with a fire Eliot knew well.

"Who the hell is this?" Nate demanded.

"That, Mr. Ford," said a smiling voice from the doorway, "would be my wife."


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review! I'm excited that everyone seems to be enjoying this story as much as I am. Special thanks again to quirkapotamus for her constant support and suggestions. If you aren't already, go read her fic, The French Kiss Job — it's a fun one!_

_This chapter was a doozy to write, so I hope you all enjoy! Thanks again!_

_._

_._

Chapter 11

"That, Mr. Ford, would be my wife." Mateo Ramirez, dashing as always, leaned lazily against the door frame with a devilish grin on his face.

Eliot rolled his eyes. Matty always did have a flair for the dramatic.

"C'mon, El, aren't you gonna introduce me to your new friends?" Matty asked as he pushed off the door frame and entered the room.

"Guys, this is Matty Ramirez. He's the General's son-in-law."

Sophie approached first and held out her hand. "It's lovely to meet you. I'm —"

"Rebecca Ibañez," Matty said, winking. "How nice to finally meet you! Michael's told us so much about you! You've known each other how long again? A few years, right?"

He flashed his dashing smile and dropped the act. "If you're the one who's been coaching him, you must be the best around. I've never seen him talk in public … well, ever."

Sophie, always vulnerable to flattery when it came to her craft, smiled demurely and — Eliot realized with increasing alarm — flirtatiously. He recalled the puppy conversation as he watched the grifter look Matty up and down with a discerning and admiring eye.

He cleared his throat loudly. "You done sucking up, Matty? This is Hardison and Parker" — they shook hands — "and this is —"

"Nate Ford," Matty said, shaking Nate's hand firmly. "Juan told me you'd be coming to help us out. Tell me —" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "How'd you get this one to come around and start to play nice with others?" He jerked his head in Eliot's direction.

Matty was obviously fishing — Eliot had refused to answer his inquiries during their brief conversation the previous day — but there were more important things to discuss right now.

"If you're done making jokes, Matty, maybe you can tell me why you're letting your nine-month-pregnant wife out of hiding to do interviews about the election."

"Okay, first of all, nobody 'lets' Maria do anything, let's get that straight," Matty said. "And second ... because that's what you asked me yesterday when you came to my house for the first time in eight years?"

Eliot tried to ignore the looks on the faces of his teammates — he'd never told them just how long it had been since he'd last set foot in San Lorenzo. "No, I said I needed the General's next in line to start rallying the troops."

Nate chuckled. "I think you may have been mistaken about exactly who the next in line is, Eliot."

Eliot's eyes widened as he processed what Nate's words. "You're saying Maria …?"

Matty laughed. "Of course it's Maria, why else did you come to me yesterday?" His smile faded as his eyes widened in realization. "Wait, you thought it was me? El, I'm a soldier, not a politician."

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "Just like your old man, huh?"

Matty beamed at the compliment. His father, General Ramirez, had been childhood friends with General Flores. They'd enlisted back during the war for independence, risen through the ranks together, and been promoted to the rank of general at the same time. But, while General Flores was more of a political, rally-the-troops military leader — hence his recent presidential campaign, Eliot remembered with a pang — General Ramirez had been a soldier through-and-through. He'd loved strategy and insisted on joining his men on the front lines. When Moreau came to power, Generals Flores and Ramirez had led the fight against him together; but General Ramirez had been killed in one of the first firefights with Moreau. His wife, Matty's mother, had died a few months later. Matty was eleven.

"So you a general yet?" Eliot crossed his arms as he nodded in Matty's direction.

"Nope. Still a colonel. Going on five years now."

"Five years? What the hell are they waiting on?"

Matty smiled grimly. "Only the president can appoint generals. And thanks to my father-in-law and my wife, Ribera knows exactly whose side I'm on. His generals are all bullshit political appointees with no real military experience. They wouldn't know military action if it showed up at one of their political rallies and tried to assassinate their leader. Which it did." He rubbed his shoulder absently. "You'd think taking a bullet for the son of a bitch would have earned me something."

Eliot's stomach did a flip. Why hadn't he heard that Matty had been shot?

"Didn't you get a medal?" Parker asked, eyes sparkling as they always did when she thought of shiny things.

Matty's laugh was bitter. "Oh, there was a medal awarded, all right. To one of those political generals who cowered while I saved their president from assassination." He sighed. "Imagine waking up in the hospital to your wife ranting and raving, not at Moreau, not at Ribera, but at _you_." Eliot smiled as Matty fell into an uncanny impression of Maria. "'You should never have risked your life for that bastard! You should have let him get killed. It would have been better for our country! How could you have been so stupid?' Like I thought about the political ramifications in the split second I had to move … It's my job to protect people, especially the president, no matter who the hell he is … And it's not like —"

He stopped, as if suddenly remembering people were there. "Anyway, yeah. No medal, no promotion. Too politically charged. There's no way he's going to promote the husband of Maria Flores."

Eliot's eyes widened, and Matty laughed. "Yeah, don't mention it to her. It's a touchy subject."

"What is, you getting shot, or her being the reason you haven't been promoted?"

"Both. In fact, better pretend this conversation never happened, otherwise I'll be in deep shit." Matty's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"That's because it's bullshit, Matty!" Eliot couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "You're a damned good soldier. And you took a bullet for Ribera? You should have been promoted when Juan retired!"

"Well, I'm definitely not Juan." Matty paused. "But, I have to say, coming from you … I'm flattered."

They looked at each other in silence for a second, and Eliot felt a little overwhelmed by how much time had passed since he'd last been to San Lorenzo. Then Matty said, "Damn, it's good to see you again, El," and he embraced Eliot.

Eliot was filled with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment — fully aware that the team was watching with intense curiosity — but he returned the hug. He hadn't realized until just now how much he'd missed Matty.

"Well, you definitely married into the Flores family's affinity for hugging," he chuckled.

Matty laughed as he pulled away. "That I did. It's a little difficult to avoid."

Eliot frowned. "I don't get it, Matty. You're the natural choice to succeed Juan."

"Definitely the natural choice, considering I saved the life of the man who represents everything wrong in San Lorenzo." Matty smirked. "You do know the point is to get him _out _of office, right?"

"But … Maria?"

"Of course Maria, El. Look at her. She's amazing." Matty turned to look at the screen where his wife was paused mid-interview, smiling in pride and admiration.

Sophie crossed her arms, and when she spoke, her voice was cold. "Why exactly did you think it would be Matty and not Maria, Eliot? Is it because she's a woman?"

"Yeah!" Parker said. "Don't you know women can be generals too?"

Everyone looked at Parker, and Hardison said, "Uh, Mama, she's not a general, she's just the next person in line to be a leader of San Lorenzo. Matty's the one that's supposed to be a general."

Parker spoke to Hardison as if he was a small child. "Yeah, but her father's the General, and when she takes over she'll be the General, too."

Hardison shook his head and gave up, turning on Eliot instead. "Seriously, though, man, that is kinda sexist."

"Sexist?!" Eliot sputtered. "It's not — I don't —"

Matty was grinning. "How did you do that?" he asked Hardison.

Hardison grinned back. "What, make him sputter like that?" He shrugged. "It's a gift."

"Yeah," Parker piped up. "You should see how red his face gets when he says 'Dammit, Hardison!'"

Eliot felt himself flush as he said reflexively, "Dammit, Hardison!" This situation was surreal. Two of his worlds had just collided, and he couldn't wrap his head around it.

Matty just laughed, and then he turned to Hardison, said "Nice!" and they _high-fived_.

"I like your new friends, El," Matty said with a grin.

"Matty, I'm serious about this!" Eliot sputtered.

The smile left Matty's face, and he crossed his arms in mock seriousness. "So am I," he said. But he couldn't keep a straight face as he asked, "What were we talking about again?"

Parker and Hardison burst into laughter. Sophie smiled, and Nate had that grin on his face again.

"Maria, Matty! What the hell is this? When I left she was just a kid! She had nothing to do with anything political. You were the one who was serving under the General! She didn't want anything to do with it!"

Matty's expression darkened. "You're right. When you left she was an eighteen-year-old girl who'd just gotten married. But that changed, El. She changed when you left ... She changed _because _you left."

Eliot was stunned. "What the hell does that mean?"

Matty sighed. "El, she lost her brother. He went on a mission one day and never came back." He closed his eyes as he paused; Berto had been his best friend growing up. Matty had lost a lot of friends, Eliot remembered as a pang shot through his heart. "She was heart-broken when he died, and then she found you to confide in, and me to love. And she was happy. But then you left. We got married, and went to Paris for two weeks, and when we got back, you were just ... gone." His eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You didn't even say goodbye."

"Matty, I _had _to leave ... didn't Juan ... ?" Eliot said. It physically pained him to think that he might have hurt Maria or Matty.

"Yes, he told us," Matty said darkly. "But that didn't change anything. It broke her heart, El. She lost another brother."

Eliot could barely breathe.

"So she decided enough was enough," Matty continued. "She wasn't going to let Moreau take away anyone else she loved. She became politically active, in parallel to what Juan and I were doing. She railed against Moreau, Ribera, and everyone in between who might have anything to do with keeping San Lorenzo from being a true democracy. And the people listened." He looked at the screen again, his eyes filled with love and admiration. "She loves them, and they love her."

"You just left?" They all turned to see Parker, eyes brimming with tears of accusation and betrayal. "You didn't even say goodbye? You just abandoned them? Why?"

Eliot's voice shook when he spoke. "Parker, I had to leave."

"Why?" she said again, more darkly this time. Her eyes flashed with anger.

"Because I didn't have a choice, Parker." She needed to understand. He would never hurt her or Maria or any of them unless there was absolutely no other choice.

So he took a deep breath, and he told them.

.

.

.

Eliot was sitting at the bar trying to ignore the music and dancing and happiness going on around him. It was difficult. So he poured himself another glass from the bottle of Jack Daniel's he'd told the bartender to leave and knocked it back.

When Maria had asked him to be Matty's best man, he'd initially said no. But she'd insisted, she'd begged, she'd cried. "Please, Eliot, do this for me. Matty doesn't have anyone now." And so he'd agreed, for Maria's sake, even though he'd known how painful it would be for himself.

He'd put on the damned tux that he shouldn't have been wearing. He'd stood by Matty as Maria walked down the aisle, looking radiant. That was the one point where he'd forgotten, for a second, everything else and was just happy for them.

But that was over quickly. He'd made the damned toasts that weren't his. He'd pasted on his fake smile and danced with Maria and told her how happy he was for her and Matty. He'd even danced with the maid-of-honor, since apparently that was also a duty of the best man.

She'd flirted with him hard. Too hard. He'd had to move her hand from his ass twice. He'd tried to be nice, but eventually he'd said, "Listen, darlin', I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm really not up for that tonight."

She'd pouted and said, "Aw, come on, Eliot," and run her fingers down his jawbone, under his chin, and across his lips. For a second he'd considered it, just fucking her senseless, just so he could feel _something _other than the numbness of the past week. Then he'd remembered his original plan for the wedding, to get laid and have a blast, but that was before ... No. It wouldn't be fair to her anyway; she deserved someone who would enjoy being with her.

He'd grabbed both her hands in his and pushed them away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I wouldn't be much fun tonight. Go find another groomsman" — his heart had squeezed hard at that — "who'll be able to give you a better time than me. Don't worry," he'd added, as he saw her eyes flash toward Maria, "I'll tell her you tried, but that I was a stubborn bastard who somehow said no to a beautiful woman in his arms."

She'd looked relieved and not a little flattered, and looked over toward the groomsman she'd been flirting with earlier in the day.

"Go," he'd said, flashing his best fake smile and nodding toward the man. "Have fun." He'd kissed her on the cheek and said, in all sincerity, "And I really do appreciate you trying."

She'd skipped away, and he'd headed straight for the bar, where he'd been sitting for the past hour. He poured himself another glass and realized that the bottle was almost empty._ Who cares? Juan's paying for it. _He tossed that drink back, too.

He was trying to figure out how long he'd have to wait to leave before Maria wouldn't be pissed when he heard a phone ringing. He looked around, but no one else seemed to hear it. Juan and Maria were dancing, looking happy, and everyone was gathered around, taking pictures and smiling. He tried to figure out where it was coming from, and he thought it was coming from his jacket, draped over the back of his chair. He fished in the front inside pocket for longer than should have been necessary and pulled out his phone, frowning. He hadn't even realized he'd brought it with him. _Old habits, _he thought darkly.

Who could possibly be calling him now? Anyone who had this number was here. But he was happy for a distraction, so he answered.

"Spencer," he said with more slur than he'd expected, but he didn't give a damn tonight.

"Spencer, my friend," a familiar voice purred. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up. Having fun?"

Eliot was suddenly alert. He spun around in his chair — a little too quickly, he realized as his stomach lurched — and his eyes darted around the room, searching for anything suspicious.

"What do you want, Moreau?" he growled, but it was much less intimidating when he couldn't even form the words properly.

Moreau chuckled gleefully. "You know, a lesser man might be offended by that greeting, but I've always had a weak spot for you. I want to talk."

"I'm not much on talkin', Moreau," Eliot said, still searching the room madly. It was difficult with the fog in his head.

"Let me do the talking, then. I want to meet."

Eliot forced a laugh. "Yeah, right. You think I'm an idiot?"

"No, I think you're a realist, Spencer. That's a lovely song, and the blushing bride and her father look so happy. Blood is such a bitch to get out of silk ... I'd hate to see the dress ruined."

Eliot's heart started to pound, and so did his head. He looked even more frantically to find a sniper or gunman, but he couldn't focus.

"Don't bother, Spencer. You wouldn't get there in time — certainly not in your condition." Moreau chuckled.

Eliot tried to stay calm. "What do you want?"

"I told you, I want to meet. My study, twenty minutes. Come alone, or you'll have to explain to Flores why his daughter died in his arms on her wedding night."

The line went dead.

Eliot was stunned. He sat for a few seconds, trying not to panic. He had to go. He stood up and the room spun. He looked over at the bottle of Jack — actually, he was seeing two of them now — and saw how empty it was.

_Fuck._

He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and was horrified by what he saw. Dark circles around his eyes — the nightmares of the past week had kept him from getting any sleep worth mentioning — bloodshot eyes, and he could have sworn one pupil was actually bigger than the other, though he had a hard time focusing on them. He was too drunk for this.

He focused on the remains of his tux. He'd left his jacket at the bar, so he had on his dress shirt, collar undone, bow tie untied around his neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his vest unbuttoned. He took off the bow tie immediately. _Could be used as a garrote_. He moved toward the trashcan, but then slipped it into his pants pocket. _Could be used as a garrote, _he thought again, more hopefully.

He decided to keep on the vest, which could also be used as a weapon if necessary. Jesus, what kind of a person was he, looking at his half-tux and assessing its parts for usefulness in a fight?

_The kind of person who got a call from Damien Moreau in the middle of a wedding, that's who._

The pants were standard dress pants: too tight for anything but standing still. But he didn't have time to change or even anything to change into, and honestly, if he was attacked he'd have bigger things to worry about than his pants ripping.

Then he remembered: he had a single knife tucked into his sock, which was held up with those sock-suspender-thingies he never remembered the name of._ Also useful as a garrote_, he thought absently. He'd snuck the knife in without Maria knowing.

"No knives at my wedding, Eliot!" she'd scolded that morning when he'd started to put his knife holster under the vest. "This is not the American Wild West! Take it off!" He'd grumbled that guns, not knives, had been the weapon of choice in the Wild West, but he'd agreed, then snuck one knife into his sock when she wasn't looking.

_Just great, _he thought. _Going to see Moreau armed with a knife, a bow tie, and some other tux accoutrements. What could possibly go wrong?_

He looked like a reject from prom night. Ready for a date with death.

He slapped his cheeks several times, hard._ A date with death?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Spencer? _He was too drunk for this.

He splashed water on his face one last time and tried to make himself presentable. If he could look like he was okay, maybe they wouldn't try anything ... Fuck, who was he kidding? Moreau had seen him drinking.

He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself, then left the bathroom and snuck away from the reception hall while everyone was busy with the dancing. He jogged to try to clear his head.

He was going alone, right into the lion's den. _With a knife, a bow tie, a vest, those sock-suspender-thingies, and too tight pants. _He didn't even have his cuff links with him. And he was drunk. He was a dead man.

_Bring it on, Moreau._

.

.

.

Nine and a half minutes later, he burst through the door of Moreau's study. He was met by the sight and sound of a dozen men cocking and aiming their guns right at his chest. Chapman was front and center.

"Aw, Spencer, you didn't have to dress up just for us," he drawled.

The rage that boiled so close to the top these days — the only thing that ever displaced the emptiness, if only for a little bit — almost overwhelmed him. The booze didn't help. He had never hated the bastard more than in that moment.

"Now, Chapman," Moreau purred from behind his desk, "I want him to hear my offer before you two decide to finally have the angry sex you've been holding back on all this time."

The look on Chapman's face at the realization that his boss still didn't have any respect for him after nearly a year in the top job made Eliot laugh — actually laugh, like he thought it was funny. Maybe it really was funny, he didn't know. He was too damned drunk.

"Don't worry, Chapman," he winked, "Someday Daddy might appreciate you. But only if you're good." He smiled his most devilish grin as he thought of all the different ways he wanted to kill Chapman.

Chapman smiled and said, "He certainly appreciated my work in the warehouse last week. By the way, how's your little friend?"

Nope, _now _he had never hated the bastard more. Before anyone had time to react, Eliot disarmed Chapman and hit him in the left side of the abdomen. He knew he'd hit the right spot as he saw the blood on his own fist and the red stain spreading on Chapman's shirt. Chapman fell to the ground with a yelp of pain as Eliot put his foot on the man's throat and pointed the gun at his head.

"Knife wounds are a bitch, aren't they?" he snarled. "Now you understand why I prefer them to guns, though for you I think I'll make an exception."

"You don't want to do that, Spencer," Moreau said, calm as always.

Eliot's eyes were still on Chapman as he said, "Oh, I really think I do." Then he turned and pointed the gun at Moreau and said, "And while I'm at it, I think I'll take care of you, too."

"You'll never get out of here alive," one of the men said.

Eliot turned and shouted to the room, "Do you think I give a fuck?! I was dead the moment I set foot in here! So go ahead! But if I'm going down, I may as well take as many of you with me as I can!"

"You really don't want to do that, Spencer," Moreau said quietly. Eliot turned to him; he was holding a phone to his ear and smiling. It was the smile Moreau always had on his face when he knew he had the upper hand.

"If you don't hear from me in the next ten seconds," Moreau said into the phone, never taking his eyes off Eliot. "Open fire on the wedding, starting with the bride and groom." He spoke to Eliot. "Now, I asked you here to talk, Spencer. We can talk, or my man can start shooting. Your choice."

He smiled, and Eliot finally knew what the Devil looked like.

"Five seconds," Moreau said.

Eliot's hand holding the gun started to shake, and his heart — and head — pounded. This was his chance to get rid of Moreau for good … but not at the expense of everyone at the wedding. He wouldn't let anyone else die for his mistakes._ Never again._

He knew he'd lost. He lowered the gun, took out the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. He threw the gun to his left, away from everyone, and tossed the magazine onto Moreau's desk.

"Call him off," he nearly whispered.

Moreau smiled. "I knew you'd make the right choice. Standby," he said into the phone, and then he hung up. "Now, are you going to let Chapman up? He doesn't look too well."

"I'm good, thanks," Eliot said, crossing his arms. He kept his foot on Chapman's throat. The man could breathe, but he was in a lot of pain and bleeding quite a bit. Eliot smiled, but his heart squeezed in pain.

Moreau shrugged. "I'm good if you are."

"What the hell do you want, Moreau?"

Moreau smiled and sighed dramatically. "I really do miss you, Eliot. You always get right to the point. I'm here to make you an offer."

Eliot laughed again — he wished he'd stop it, none of this was actually funny, but the damned alcohol haze still surrounded his brain. "There's no way I'm agreeing to any fucking thing you offer me, Moreau."

Moreau's smile turned dark. "Ah, yes, well, I knew you would say that. But I really do think you should hear what I'm offering before you tell me to fuck off."

Eliot stood with his arms crossed. What could Moreau possibly be offering, and why in the hell wasn't he dead yet?

"I want you to leave San Lorenzo."

"Fuck off," Eliot snarled. "There's nothing you could do to make me leave."

"Oh, I know that's not true. If you don't leave, then I'll make sure all your little friends suffer for it," Moreau purred.

"You won't be able to touch them if I'm here, and you know it."

"Yes and no. You see, the lucky newlyweds are going off on their honeymoon tomorrow, to ... Where was it, Chapman?"

Eliot smiled as he watched Chapman try to choke out an answer with Eliot's foot over his throat.

"Paris …"

Eliot smile faded as his stomach did a somersault.

"Yes, that's right, thank you, Chapman." Moreau smiled. "_Not _to Rome, though I imagine that false information was your idea, wasn't it, Spencer?"

Eliot had known that the real honeymoon destination might be a target, so he'd suggested announcing a fake one. But Moreau had seen right through it. He should have known. _Moreau knows me._

"You won't be able to touch them, they'll be guarded the whole time," Eliot said, but his voice was shaking and still slurring slightly.

"But I won't have to." Moreau's voice was smooth as silk. "I'll just send someone in to check on the plane, and snip snip, they never arrive in Paris." He smiled at Eliot. "You know how these things are done, Spencer."

Eliot stood silently, mind whirling, trying to hide his growing terror. Moreau didn't make empty threats.

"So I'll go with them, check the plane, everything. You won't hurt a hair on their heads."

"Of course, but then who will protect General Flores? I've been meaning to get rid of him for _so _long, and without his top man, I think I might just have a chance," Moreau cooed.

_He's going to make me choose, _Eliot thought. _That's what he does. _It was stifling in the room, and he was starting to hyperventilate.

"But," Moreau continued. "If you leave, I promise not to touch them."

"Right, and you always keep your promises," Eliot snarled. He really wished he could form words without slurring.

"Spencer, if you left and I killed the entire Flores family — no, no, kill is too simple. If I had Chapman here take care of the Flores family" — his eyes sparkled with a sick pleasure as every single muscle in Eliot's body tensed — "what would you do? Honestly."

Eliot pushed down harder on Chapman's throat. "I'd kill you," he said simply. "In the worst way I know how. Wouldn't matter how many men you put in front of me, I'd get there."

Moreau's grin grew wider as Eliot spoke. Eliot wished he could do or say anything that could wipe that smug look off the bastard's face, but he knew better. Nothing could do that. Moreau was always in control.

"Exactly," Moreau said. "And, this may surprise you, but I have no desire to die at your hands. You're too good at what you do."

Eliot was surprised to see a tiny flicker of fear in Moreau's eyes. That was new. Maybe this offer was for real.

"So, I leave San Lorenzo and you leave the Flores family alone. Why don't you just kill me right now? I'm pretty drunk and I'm not armed, though I do have a hostage." He felt himself smirk as Chapman tensed.

_What the fuck are you doing, Spencer?! Do you want to die?!_

Moreau laughed. "Eliot, maybe it's the alcohol talking, but you really do have the biggest balls of any man I know! Even if I wanted to kill you, Flores wouldn't let me get away with it. But I could never kill you: you're the best. It would be like killing a prized thoroughbred after he won the Triple Crown, to use an American reference for you." He winked. "You're too valuable an asset, Eliot, and I hope one day you might be valuable to me again."

"Go to hell, Moreau," Eliot spat. The "asset" crap was bullshit for the men; he used that term all the time to keep people in line. The real reason was that Moreau knew the General would start an all-out war if he killed Eliot.

This time Moreau's smile was wistful. He shook his head in sadness. "You were the best, Eliot, my friend. I gave you everything, including free reign. I've never done that for anyone, before or since." Chapman coughed under Eliot's foot. "And you threw it all away to join Flores and his cute little army. We could have ruled the world together, you and I."

"I'm not too crazy about how you decided to get there," Eliot spat.

Moreau's eyes darkened. He was finished with playtime. "I want you gone," he snarled. "Stay out of my business, here and elsewhere." For the first time, he came around his desk and walked toward Eliot. "You see, I'm done with this backwater country. I'm too big for this little pond." He looked Eliot in the eyes. "I've always been destined for greater things," he said almost defensively, and Eliot saw something in the man's eyes that he'd never seen before. But it was gone in a flash, before he could identify it.

"So I'm branching out," Moreau continued, back in control. "My international contacts have helped me expand my business to the point where I need to be elsewhere, somewhere more central. Perhaps Berlin, or Paris." His eyes glinted with an evil Eliot had rarely seen. "And the only thing keeping me from fulfilling my full potential is you, Spencer. So I want you gone. You stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours. But the second you break your end of the bargain is the second I'll break mine."

Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So I leave and pretend I never knew you, and you leave the Flores family alone?" _This can't be for real._

"Exactly," Moreau purred. "So ... do we have a deal?"

Eliot was trying to weigh his options, but he knew he had no choice. The thought of leaving San Lorenzo, Juan, Matty and Maria, _Pete_... It was agony. But if he stayed, they'd all be dead — no, worse than dead.

"I need a week," Eliot lied, even though he knew Moreau would never agree.

"No," Moreau snapped. "You leave tonight. I don't want you to have any time to second guess or tip anyone off. I want you to go straight to the airport."

"I'm not leaving until I know that Matty and Maria are safely in Paris," Eliot countered. "Otherwise, how will I know you're not gonna go back on your word?"

Moreau considered it. "Fine," he agreed. "But as soon as that plane lands, I want yours taking off. And I never want to see you again."

Moreau walked up to him and gently grabbed his arms, just like Juan always did. Moreau looked him in the eyes, and Eliot saw only evil. He felt sick at the thought that he had once admired this man.

"Eliot, I truly am sorry. I wish things had ended differently between us. We could have ruled the world, with me at the helm and you at my right side. We were the best. You could have had everything." Moreau shook his head. "I'll miss our little chats, my friend." Then his voice grew low and dark, and he said, "You'll regret making an enemy of me."

Eliot shrugged off the hands and said in a voice to match Moreau's, "That's the one thing in my life I'll never regret, Damien." He was stone-cold sober.

Then he raised his voice, because he wanted to make sure all the men heard it, but the darkness and threat remained. "I'll be keeping tabs, Moreau. If I hear that anyone in the Flores family dies or gets hurt because of anything other than natural causes, I'll be back. And it won't be pretty. I'll get past all your men, no matter how many there are, because I know how they work. I did train them, after all." He smiled the Rottweiler's most dangerous smile. "And when I get to you, you'll regret you ever made an enemy of_ me_. You know exactly what I'm capable of. My work is, as you say, 'inspired'. And I'll do my worst, Moreau. Don't think for a second that I'll hold back."

He looked down at Chapman. He removed his foot from the man's throat, but before he moved away, he stomped on the knife wound. Chapman howled in pain. "You really should get that looked at," Eliot said with a smile. "Until next time, Chapman."

He turned back to Moreau, his eyes filled with more hate and anger than he'd ever known, and said, "Goodbye, Damien."

Then he turned around and walked out of Moreau's study for the last time.

.

.

.

When he returned to the reception, the party was still in full swing. Eliot had no doubt that it would go until dawn. He went back to his place at the bar. It was the same as before, and yet completely different.

His world had just been turned upside-down. He hadn't given any thought to when he might leave San Lorenzo. He had just recently decided to stay until Moreau was defeated. Now he was being forced to leave, and Moreau was going international. He looked around the room at the Flores family. They had saved him … they'd help him start to feel again. And now he had to leave.

Maybe it was better this way. When he wasn't swallowed by the emptiness, he was filled with rage, and that wasn't much help to anyone.

He looked at the nearly empty bottle of Jack. It made him want to vomit.

"Eliot!" He turned and there was Juan, buzzed and happy as a clam. He sat next to Eliot clumsily and leaned his arms on the bar. "Where did you sneak off to? Maria said you turned down the lovely maid-of-honor whose name escapes me right now —" He chuckled. "But I hope you snuck off with another of the guests for some fun." He nudged Eliot suggestively with his elbow.

Eliot looked at him. How could he possibly tell him this?

Juan knew immediately that something was wrong. He could always tell. He frowned and said, "What's happened? Is everything okay?"

Eliot looked into his empty glass and said, "No, nothing is okay. I just got back from meeting with Moreau."

Juan was suddenly sober. _Wish I could have done that earlier_. "Moreau? You — you _met _with him? Just now? How are you ...? Why?"

Eliot decided to answer the last question first. The others just didn't matter. But he didn't want to worry Juan, so he said, "He threatened you, so I had to go. He made me an offer."

Juan's eyes widened with worry. "What kind of offer?"

As Eliot told him, he saw the fear and worry in Juan's eyes turn to anger, then immense sadness. He was silent for a long time after Eliot finished.

"There's no other way?" he asked. His eyes begged.

"There's not," Eliot said. "I have to be gone once Maria and Matty have landed in Paris."

Juan's eyes filled with a grief that Eliot had only seen when Juan thought about Berto, and his heart broke.

"Juan, please ..." He looked away. "I have to do this. I'm sorry."

Juan said nothing.

"Listen. Moreau is leaving. He's always hated San Lorenzo, because —"

Eliot remembered the defensiveness in Moreau's voice and the flash in his eyes. He recognized it now, and it made him smile.

"— because Moreau has daddy issues, just like the rest of us. But he's leaving. He'll leave a small contingent, but it shouldn't be anything you can't handle. I'm sure he'll keep this as a safe-haven, but he won't be terrorizing you on a daily basis. You can take your country back, Juan."

Juan's eyes were filled with grief. "And the price is losing you."

A lump formed in Eliot's throat. _No. The price is losing you._

He looked Juan in the eyes. "I will never forget what you've done for me, Juan. I'll be forever in your debt. And don't give me that bullshit about me saving your life twice." He smiled. "First of all, it's once and a half. And second …"

His voice gave out. He took a few deep breaths and continued. "Thank you. For everything."

Juan's eyes filled with tears.

"I wanted more than anything to help you beat the bastard," Eliot spat. "But you're going to have to do that without me."

"Eliot," Juan said, "we can figure out a way —"

"No!" Eliot said sharply. "I have too much blood on my hands already! I won't add yours to it!"

He took a deep breath and stood up. "I need to go. I can't stay here. Tell Maria and Matty ..." He didn't know what else to say.

"You have to say goodbye, Eliot."

"And ruin their wedding? Look at them." They both turned and watched for a moment as Matty and Maria danced together. She was smiling, eyes closed, and her head was on his shoulder; he was smiling, too, one hand on her waist, the other stroking her hair, whispering something into her ear. "This is the happiest they've ever been, and maybe ever will be. And they deserve it. I won't ruin that for them. I can't take that away. Just ... just …" He was having difficulty speaking. "Please explain why I had to go. And tell them that I ..." He looked away.

"Eliot." As he turned back, Juan embraced him for what they both knew was the last time. Then he took Eliot by the arms, as he always had, looked into his eyes and said, "Eliot Spencer, you are a good man. You have done some terrible things, and you will never be clean of them, but you are and always have been a good man. Never forget that. Death is too easy, but so is life if you never live it." Eliot's eyes stung as Juan quoted those words. "You can do good, Eliot, and you will. I have faith in you. I am _proud _of you."

Eliot closed his eyes until he could regain control. He would never be able to tell Juan how much it meant to him to hear those words. "Thank you," he said thickly. "For everything."

Then he turned and left the wedding reception. Eight hours later he was on a plane, leaving San Lorenzo for the last time.

.

.

.

As he finished the story, he looked at the team. Sophie was silently crying. Parker was, too, but not like before. Hardison was staring at his computer screen through unshed tears, and Nate — well, Nate was unreadable, as always.

It was Matty who spoke first, his voice thick with emotion. "El ... I had no idea ... You _met _with him? How could you be so stupid?"

"I didn't have a choice, Matty. He had someone there, and he threatened to kill Maria while she danced with Juan." He looked at Matty, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "He would have done it, Matty, at your wedding. It would have broken you. And it would have — Matty, it would have broken _Juan_." Matty's eyes flashed with grief, but he nodded in understanding. "I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't let it happen. So I did what he asked."

"But you were drunk ... and you met with Damien Moreau?" Matty shook his head in disbelief. "How did he not kill you?"

"He didn't want to," Eliot explained. "If he had, I'd be dead. But what would you have done if Moreau had killed your best man?"

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Matty's eyes flickered with pain at the same time Eliot's heart seared with it. It was a horrible choice of words, but Eliot was comforted to know that he wasn't alone in still feeling the pain eight years later.

"We'd have thrown everything we had at him," Matty said darkly. "Juan would've —"

"Exactly," Eliot said. "Moreau didn't want a war, he just wanted to be left alone. If Moreau had killed me, you would have started a war. If I had even attempted to kill him, he would have started a war. And if he had killed you …_I _would have started a war," he finished darkly.

"Mutually assured destruction." Nate sounded as though he finally understood.

"Exactly," Eliot said to Nate's chest. He still couldn't look the man in the eyes, and certainly not now.

Nate spoke as though he was thinking aloud. "'_Because I was trying to figure out a way around this, maybe take my shot …_'" Eliot was surprised to hear his own words from the park come out of Nate's mouth. "You were going to go after Moreau. Alone."

Sophie gasped. "What? Eliot, you wouldn't! You're not that man anymore!"

"But he would've been, to protect the Flores family," Hardison said, finally looking at Eliot. Eliot saw sadness, and pity, and something else ..._Respect?_

"To protect_ us_," Parker corrected. The betrayal was gone from her eyes, and Eliot was relieved. Now there was only sadness. It still hurt Eliot's heart to see it in her eyes, but the sadness would fade.

"Exactly," Nate said. "'_I'm protecting you … Last time I checked that's my job,_'" he quoted Eliot again.

"To protect you all." Eliot stared at the floor as a lump formed in his throat. "That's my — I made a promise …"

He looked up at them, and they all looked back, expectantly. They deserved the truth. He'd been hiding from them for too long. He took a deep breath.

"I never wanted this war. But it was mine. Moreau and I struck a deal, a ceasefire, until that damned Italian bitch came along and dragged us all into it. I knew that if we fired the first shot, we were all dead. So for six months I tried to figure out a way around it, and there was a point when I actually thought I could do it. Then she moved up the deadline."

He closed his eyes and took a couple of breaths. His heart was pounding. He opened his eyes and continued.

"But I thought there still might be a way to take a shot without him knowing it. That's why I took Hardison to the hotel, and let him nearly drown at the bottom of a pool." He looked Hardison in the eyes. His voice had started to shake. "I had to do it. To try to keep us all alive. I'm sorry."

Hardison nodded in understanding. Eliot forced himself to look at the rest of the team. "I should have told you all before, but I knew you wouldn't let me do what I knew needed to be done."

He took another deep, shaky breath. He had to finish. He owed it to them.

"It almost worked, too. But somehow he figured out I was involved. Probably because it was too damned suspicious that he discovered the Italian undercover in his posse the day after I came out of nowhere and asked him to let me into his auction. That was the first shot."

_Literally. _He looked down at the table and tried to push the sounds and images of the warehouse from his mind.

"That's why the General and his family were in hiding — because I broke my end of the bargain, and Moreau was going to make good on his threat. I never thought that just a phone call could …"

He paused, took a deep breath, and looked up. Then he froze, and his voice died in his throat.

"My, my. Eliot Spencer, talking about his feelings? Buckle up, everyone, the apocalypse is coming."

They all turned at the voice. Maria Flores stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She was smiling, but there was a familiar fire in her eyes. She glowed with the radiance of pregnancy, and Eliot was struck by how beautiful she was now. It may have been due to her massive size, but she looked mature, refined.

And very pissed.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Eliot didn't know if it was because he hadn't seen it in eight years, or because it really was different, but Maria's smile, combined with the familiar fire in her eyes, was more terrifying than he had remembered.

_Breathe, Spencer._ He'd stopped mid-sentence when he'd seen her, and hadn't taken a breath since. When he finally did, he also realized he didn't have any saliva.

He glared at Matty — _A little warning next time, Ramirez?_ — but noticed, perhaps a little too gleefully, that Matty seemed just as surprised to see his wife as Eliot was.

_What exactly was your plan, Matty?_ It had apparently included Maria speaking with the press, but _not_ her coming to campaign headquarters. Maybe he'd been attempting to head off the conflict that was obviously brewing right now.

As Maria waltzed into the room — graceful as always, in spite of her massive size — her eyes flashed in Eliot's direction. He opened his mouth to speak — to say what, he wasn't sure — but before he could manage anything, Maria's attention shifted to the image of herself paused on Hardison's screen.

"Oh my god," she groaned, hands covering her face. "I look like a hot air balloon!"

"Nonsense, darling," Sophie cooed. "You look lovely."

_Thank god._ Sophie was great at diffusing tension, especially female-weight-related tension. Every man in the room, including Maria's own husband, had tensed at her remark.

"And you did a wonderful job," Sophie was saying. "Hardison said your interview already has several hundred thousand looks."

"Views," Hardison corrected in his Tormented Hacker tone. "Several hundred thousand _views_. Don't you people listen?"

Eliot couldn't keep from rolling his eyes but was glad for the distraction. He needed time to figure out what to say.

"I'm sorry," Maria said in a tone similar to Sophie's. "I don't think I properly introduced myself. I'm Maria Flores."

She held out her hand, and Sophie took it.

"Sophie Devereaux. But I'm afraid you'll need to address me as —"

"Rebecca Ibañez, future first lady of San Lorenzo, yes." Maria smiled for real this time, and Eliot was reminded of the woman in the video, not the eighteen-year-old he'd seen last. "You've really done wonders with Michael. The poor thing is usually scared to even speak up in a meeting, much less talk in front of reporters or on national television. He's terrified about the debate. I saw him outside … I think he was headed to the bathroom to throw up."

"Well I have a great pep talk planned for him. He'll be great." Sophie seemed surprisingly calm for someone whose public-speaking disaster of a future president was puking his guts out at the thought of debating his opponent.

_Must be some pep talk._

Parker popped up from her seat like a jack-in-the-box and stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you, General. I'm Parker."

Eliot couldn't keep a groan from escaping, but he was able to keep its volume low enough so as not to draw Maria's attention back to him. Next to him, Matty snorted, probably at the bemused look on Maria's face as she shook Parker's hand.

"You may be confused, sweetie. My father is the General, not me."

"Don't even try," Hardison warned. "You'll just go down the rabbit hole. Alec Hardison, by the way."

"Nice to meet you both." Maria met Eliot's gaze, and he prepared to speak again — still not sure what to say — but then she turned to Nate. "And you must be Nathan Ford. I've heard all about you and your band of thieves here — through Papa, of course." Her voice had a steely note in it. "He just couldn't stop talking about how you somehow got Eliot to work on a team again. I gather you're here to help us win our country back?"

"Steal it back, actually," Nate corrected.

Maria raised an eyebrow. Juan must have explained to her at least part of the plan, because her reaction to a thief saying he was going to steal her country was too tame.

"But don't worry," Nate continued. "That's what we do. Ribera and Moreau stole it from the people of San Lorenzo. We're going to steal it back for them."

Maria's eyebrow shot even farther up her forehead. "I should have known that when Eliot finally came back, it would only be under ... _unique _circumstances."

At the word _unique_, she finally turned her full attention to Eliot. The dangerous smile was back.

_Uh-oh._ "Maria —"

He reflexively took a step backward. Yes, Eliot Spencer had fought and defeated countless bad guys with names like the Butcher of Kiev — twice, in that guy's case — but a nine-month-pregnant Maria Flores made him take a step back. Bad guys he knew how to handle. He'd never been able to handle Maria.

"Eliot Spencer." She spoke in the honeyed tone that always preceded her explosions. "So nice to see you again. It's been too long –– what, eight years?"

She advanced more quickly than he was expecting — she was almost right in front of him. The closest exit was the window Parker had jumped out of earlier, and he sure as hell wasn't going to do that.

"Maria, I —"

He'd expected the hit to the face. He even sort of expected it to hurt as much as it did — he was the one who'd taught her how to do it, after all.

But he didn't expect the second hit to his solar plexus, or the third to the other side of his face. That was Matty's style, not his.

"Jesus, Maria!" the man yelled as he rushed to his wife's side. He'd clearly been teaching her things over the past eight years.

Eliot's reflexes had engaged just in time to keep him breathing and prevent a black eye, but the momentum Maria gained from her massive size — which he'd also underestimated — pushed him into the wall.

"Maria —" He coughed.

"Don't 'Maria' me, Eliot. You didn't even say goodbye, you bastard! And I haven't heard from you in eight years. _Eight years!_"

"Hardison, do you have any popcorn? I like watching Eliot getting beat up by a girl," Parker said in an attempted whisper — she didn't really seem to get how it worked.

"It really is a bit like a soap opera, isn't it?" Sophie actually whispered.

Eliot didn't have the air to growl, but the glare he threw their way seemed to lessen the hilarity of the situation.

But Maria wasn't finished. "Do you know how I know it's been eight years, Eliot? Because you left the night of my wedding, and every year on my anniversary I tick off another year you haven't been around. No visits, no phone calls, no letters. Nothing! The only way I know you're even alive is when you decide to call Papa every couple of years!"

He finally had enough breath — and the words — to start crafting a defense. "Maria, I didn't have a choice. Moreau would've killed you —"

"You could have said goodbye, Eliot! You came back to the wedding and talked to Papa, the least you could have done was tell me!"

"I didn't want to ruin everything … You were so happy —"

"So you had me trade a few weeks of happiness for eight years of heartbreak? You're a bastard, Eliot Spencer." She spat his name like it was a nasty taste in her mouth.

He winced, but not at the epithet. He had never wanted to hurt them. That had been the whole point. "I thought I was doing what was best —"

"What was best for us, or what was best for you?" She was nearly hysterical now, tears streaming down her face. "Do you have any idea how much it hurt, Eliot?"

"Maria, honey, why don't you sit down for a few minutes?"

Matty had finally decided to step in. When she rounded on him, Eliot understood why it had taken him so long.

"And _you_! He came to our house yesterday, didn't he? He was there, and you didn't tell me!"

Eliot noticed — again, a little gleefully — that Matty, too, took a step back as his wife advanced. He hadn't told her? What in the hell had his plan actually been?

"Wha — How the hell do you know that?" Matty stammered.

"Berto told me!"

"Berto? He was napping —"

"Well apparently he wasn't actually asleep. He heard a strange voice in the living room, so he snuck out of bed, and —"

"Dammit, Maria, I told you he wasn't old enough for a big boy bed!"

"All the books say that now's the right time, Matty," Maria screeched, as if _that_ was the last straw. "And don't change the subject! He told me he looked into the living room and saw his papa talking with a strange man with long hair, blue eyes, and a blue shirt —"

Matty frowned. "Wait, he was wearing a red shirt."

Maria's wrath dissolved in an instant as her eyes filled with tears again. "He was? So he's still confusing red and blue? What's wrong with him?" Her last sentence was almost a whimper, as if the future of a toddler who didn't know his colors was almost too horrific to contemplate.

Matty's voice was gentler than Eliot had ever heard it. "He's three, Maria, there's nothing wrong with him. We'll just keep working on it."

He reached out to touch her arm, but instead of comforting her, the action seemed to snap her out of Concerned Mother mode and back into Woman Scorned mode.

"That's beside the point, Matty! It doesn't matter what color his shirt was. He got the eyes right, didn't he, and he said the man was muscle-y and had blue eyes and long hair and _talked with a funny accent_." Matty winced as she poked him in the chest on the last phrase.

"I do not have a funny accent," Eliot muttered, against his better judgment.

Parker snorted. "Yeah you do!"

Hardison mumbled, "At least to a three-year-old."

Eliot shot them all another glare, but the damage was done. Maria's eyes had filled with tears yet again, but not tears of anger at him or Matty, or concern over Berto's lack of color knowledge. These tears were much, much worse.

Heartbreak.

"Yes, it would sound funny to Berto, because he's never heard it before," she said. "How could he, unless he was eight?"

Matty moved forward to comfort her, but she didn't see it because she had already launched herself at Eliot.

He braced for another hit, but it never came. Instead, she threw her arms around him and pulled his as close as her large belly would allow. Then she buried her head in his shoulder and started to sob.

"Oh god, Eliot, I missed you so much!"

Overwhelmed, Eliot held her tight and stroked her hair, like he had when she'd needed comforting years ago. It suddenly became very difficult to see, and he felt a sting in his throat. "I missed you, too, kiddo," he managed to say.

They stood there in each other's arms for what seemed like an eternity. Eight years was a long time.

When she finally pulled away, he wished she hadn't.

"I'm sorry," she said thickly, wiping her eyes. "Hormones. And I'm not a kid, anymore, Eliot, in case you haven't noticed."

He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "I did notice, sweetheart. Look at you, all grown up and saving San Lorenzo. And you're a mom …" His voice gave out. Eight years _was_ a long time.

"You look beautiful," he finished.

Maria's eyes widened, and she _giggled_. "Don't you dare try that on me," she said as she flushed, and she smacked his arm playfully. "You haven't changed a bit. Still handsome and flirty as ever."

A deep, guttural noise emanated from Matty.

Eliot threw him a look that said, _You've got to be kidding me, right?_ Matty responded with a particularly nasty glare.

Eliot rolled his eyes. He certainly hadn't missed that. Glares were a Matty Ramirez specialty.

"I saw your interview on the way back," Maria continued with a smile, as if she hadn't noticed the exchange. Maybe she hadn't. "The women were all swooning. How many have asked for your number so far?"

"Seven," said Hardison with a shake of his head. "Ridiculous, right?"

"Yes it is," Matty grumbled.

Just to screw with them, Eliot grinned and said, "What can I say? Puppies and babies are chick magnets."

But Maria suddenly stopped smiling. She looked down at her belly and said wistfully, "You've never met Berto. I hope you will before you leave. He's wonderful, and so smart ... Except that he still doesn't know the difference between red and blue." Her Concerned Mother look was back.

Before Matty could step in, Eliot lifted her chin and said, "Don't worry, darlin'. He'll get it. Plus, in his defense, I was wearing a very bluish-looking red shirt yesterday."

He winked. It did its job — she smiled again.

"Damn, I missed you," she said.

Nate cleared his throat. "If I may interrupt. I have a few questions related to the job at hand."

Eliot felt himself flush. He'd almost forgotten the team was there. Sure, Hardison and Parker had piped up a couple times with sarcastic comments, but he suddenly felt self-conscious at the idea that Nate had been watching the whole time.

Sophie had either noticed Eliot's reaction or had come to her own conclusion, because she shot Nate a glare that made _him_ flush slightly. But, being Nate, he cleared his throat and continued with the "job at hand."

"If you're the true heir apparent, Maria, then why are we grooming Michael Vittori for president and not you? It seems like you'd probably make our job much easier."

He chuckled. No one else did.

"You'll have to ask Matty about that." Maria's voice was dark as she turned to her husband.

"Maria, we _both_ agreed that with the babies —"

"Oh, don't play stupid, Mateo Ramirez." Her tone was derisive, and the look on Matty's face told Eliot that she still only used his full name when she was pissed. "You know that was when Papa had everything under control. Then he went and got himself arrested, but you wouldn't let me come out as the next candidate in line —"

Eliot's heart started to pound. Was she actually suggesting that _she_ should have taken Juan's place?

"Jesus Christ, Maria," he said vehemently. "They would have arrested you and you'd be right down there with him! You think Moreau gives a _damn_ if you're nine months pregnant with twins? Are you even thinking about your children? How can you be so damned selfish?"

Silence filled the room. Maria's eyes flashed, but she wasn't smiling this time. Somehow, that was even more terrifying.

"Selfish?" She asked in a deadly whisper. "I'm doing this _for_ them, Eliot. I refuse to let my children grow up in a country where they have to live in fear. Where their grandfather, a leading candidate for president, gets arrested just for making a damned phone call!"

_A phone call to me._ Unlike her earlier hit, Maria's words knocked all of the breath from Eliot. This was his fault. All of it. If he hadn't made the call … If he'd just finished Moreau when he'd had the chance …

"Maria, I —"

"That was my fault." Hardison's voice was heavy with guilt. "I tried to secure it, but I didn't count on Manticore coming back to bite us in the ass."

"No, it was _Papa's_ fault. I _told_ him it was a bad idea." Matty tensed, and Maria's voice was bitter. This had clearly been a point of contention. "But he said that you had a plan to defeat Moreau, and that it would be secure. I tried to get him to understand just what Manticore could do, that we have no way of beating it, but he wouldn't listen."

"You guys know about Manticore?" Hardison sounded impressed.

"Of course. Last year Moreau acquired it from an American who went to jail, and he's been using it against us ever since."

The team all shifted guiltily. Nate cleared his throat again. "Yes … That was us. We didn't realize that having him arrested would allow even more people to use his software, and we certainly didn't expect Moreau to come out on top."

Maria's eyes widened, and Matty's jaw actually dropped.

"You …?" Maria was speechless. "You were responsible for the arrest of Larry Duberman? Wha — How did you ...?"

"That's what we do," Nate said. "We help people who have nowhere else to turn. We use our particular set of skills as criminals to steal things back and make the bad guys pay. We provide ... leverage."

There it was. The team all rolled their eyes, including — especially? — Sophie.

"Is he always like this?" Matty asked under his breath.

"You have no idea," Hardison answered under his.

But Maria turned to Eliot and beamed. "So it's true, then. You found a way to do good, just like Papa always said you would."

He felt another pang of guilt at the second mention of Juan. "Maria, I — if I hadn't called him … He should be here right now."

"He's not dead, so stop pouting," she snapped. "We're going to get him out."

Eliot remembered the dead-end conversation with Juan; the frustrated discussion with Parker; Nate begging, _"Help me finish this. Please."_ Moreau's threat replayed in his head for the millionth time since yesterday: _"Make it interesting, Ford."_

Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of despair. _We can't do this. We're out of our league._

"Maria … it's the Tombs … he won't come unless … we _can't_ …"

"Of course we can." Her voice was odd. Like in the video. She was trying to rally the troops. "We'll figure out something. Matty's studied the blueprints for years, he can —"

"No! I'm not getting you guys any more involved than you already are. I told your father I'd make sure you'd be safe, not put you in more danger!"

Maria's face darkened. "Then why did you even come to us for help at all?"

"I don't —"

"Yes you do! Why?"

"I don't fucking know, okay?"

She advanced on him, but didn't strike. "Don't you _dare_ use language like that around my children." Then she cradled her belly, and in a voice as light and fluffy as it was dark and deadly only a moment earlier, she cooed, "I'm sorry, _mis bebés_, your Uncle Eliot used a bad word. Just pretend you didn't hear it."

Parker's eyes were wide.

Maria continued, her voice filled with derision this time. "Jesus, Eliot, you haven't changed even a little bit in eight years, have you? Always blaming yourself when things go wrong, instead of just moving on and fixing them. When are you going to stop living in the past and start focusing on the future? When are you going to stop blaming yourself for everything that's happened?"

Memories started to flash — memories of Moreau, and Chapman, the Perezes, and Pete — but he pushed them away. "Never."

"Why?"

"Because that's how I know I'm not like him."

He looked at the floor as his eyes started to sting. No one said anything. No one even breathed.

"Is that what you think?" Maria asked breathlessly. "That unless you torture yourself, you'll be like Moreau? Eliot, you are _not_ like him. You stopped that a long time ago, and you've been a good person ever since."

He pictured the carnage in the warehouse. "You have no idea what I've been doing since then."

"I know you've been working with Nate Ford for the past three years. And he just told me you help people. You do good, Eliot. You're a good person."

"Don't say that! You don't —"

"You'd better not be about to swear again in front of your niece and nephew, Eliot Spencer!"

"Don't say that, Maria," Eliot said quietly. "I'm not your brother. Save that title for Berto. He deserved it."

Maria's lips formed a thin line. "Oh, so you don't just carry the guilt, now you also don't deserve to be loved?"

Eliot's heart was pounding now, and he was starting to hyperventilate. He couldn't be here anymore. He couldn't talk about this. Not in front of the team.

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Maria." He turned toward the door.

"That's right, run away, it's what you do best!"

He spun around. "Dammit, Maria, I left because I had to! You know that!"

"I'm not talking about then, Eliot. I'm talking about now."

That's when he realized: she knew. She knew he was leaving the team. _How can she possibly know?_

Because she knew him. She was right. He hadn't changed in eight years.

He couldn't deal with this right now. He turned to leave again, but as always, she had one final parting shot.

"Eliot Spencer, when are you going to let yourself love and be loved? Don't you know _that's_ what makes you different from him? No one loves Damien Moreau, and he doesn't love anyone but himself."

Her words pierced his heart like a knife hitting the bulls-eye. He winced. Did she know how much that hurt?

It was one thing to accuse him of not letting people love him — that was actually true. He knew he didn't deserve it. But to accuse Eliot of not loving anyone but himself? To compare Eliot to _him_? Was that what she thought? Was that what they all thought?

He couldn't let her get away with that. He didn't care that the team was there, that Nate was watching. He spun around and looked her straight in the eyes.

"You think I left because I _didn't _love you?" His voice was like sandpaper. The lump in his throat was the size of a softball, and he could barely see. "Do you think I keep people out, push people away, leave before things get too serious and run away when they do because I _don't_ care?"

He was shaking now. "If that's what you think of me, Maria, then you don't know me at all."

He turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

_Thank you, everyone, for still reading and for your wonderful comments! And as always, special thanks to quirkapotamus for her impeccable beta-ing and brainstorming discussions, and to Valawenel for her continued encouragement and support._

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Chapter 13

Eliot stormed out of Vittori campaign headquarters and into the lobby of the Parliament building. _Why in the hell are campaign headquarters in Parliament anyway?_ His eyes stung, and he was shaking with rage. All he wanted was to be on the next flight out of San Lorenzo. God, he hated this country. Everything he saw or heard or smelled brought back memories he'd spent eight years burying. It was tearing him apart.

Suddenly he became aware of someone watching him. He spun around.

Up one floor, on the balcony overlooking the lobby, stood Moreau. The bastard wore his trademark smile, and he tipped his head to the side as if to say, _Your move, Spencer_.

A white hot rage coursed through Eliot as he realized he couldn't go anywhere. That was exactly what Moreau was waiting for. If he left San Lorenzo now, Juan would be killed after the election, and so would Maria, and Matty, and their family; and whether or not his team succeeded in stealing the election, Moreau would arrest and kill them, too. Once again, Eliot was at Moreau's mercy, only this time he had been trapped within the country, instead of being forced to leave it.

He met Moreau's gaze and held it. This time he wouldn't back down. When Election Day ended, only one of them would be left standing.

_And I'll be damned if it's gonna be you, Moreau._

After what seemed like an eternity, Moreau's smile grew wide and he winked before turning and walking away. The man's smugness might have made Eliot completely lose control right there in the lobby, if it hadn't been for just a flicker of fear in Moreau's eyes — a fear that Eliot had seen only once before, eight years ago in Moreau's study.

That did it. He definitely couldn't leave now. Not when he was the only thing standing between his team and Moreau.

Not when he was the only thing in the world that Moreau feared.

.

.

.

"Dammit!"

Yet another pillow exploded beneath Eliot's fists. He threw it across the room; it hit the wall and slid down to join the corpses of its companions. He grabbed the last remaining pillow and started to pummel it.

Pillows were terrible punching bags, but they were the best he could do at the moment. After his staring contest with Moreau, he'd needed more than ever to hit something — hard. He'd debated going to beat up some local thugs — one of these days he'd get around to that — but in San Lorenzo, all thugs belonged to Moreau, who would use any excuse to arrest Eliot and throw him in the Tombs with the General until after the election. And that wouldn't do Juan or the team any good.

He'd also considered going to a gym where he could hit a bag but decided it was too public a place. He'd already been stopped multiple times on the street because of that damned dog-fighting news story, and he didn't need to draw any more attention to himself.

So here he was, literally beating the stuffing out of pillows in his hotel room, and already on his last one. At the rate he was going, it would probably last only another ten seconds or so, and he was nowhere near done getting out all of his aggression.

The pillow was probably about three seconds away from bursting when he heard a deep, yet nearly silent sigh behind him.

He whirled around. "Dammit, Parker, just because you _can _get into someone's room doesn't mean you sh —"

He stopped, his rage evaporating as he saw her there, sitting on the second of the two beds. He barely recognized her; there was no sign of the perky blond thief they all knew and loved. She had made herself as small as possible, sitting on the corner of the bed farthest from him, knees pulled up against her chest, head resting on her knees. Her face was buried in a well-worn stuffed bunny, clutched in her arms between her legs and chest –– Eliot immediately recognized it from the time he was in her warehouse-home during the Wakefield job. He briefly wondered if she always brought it with her when they traveled, or if this job was an exception.

"Parker?" he said softly as he sat down on his bed, which was covered in pillow stuffing. He knew that when she was upset, she needed her space, just like he did. But he'd never seen her like this before.

At the sound of her name, she tightened her grip on the bunny and tried to make herself even smaller.

"Parker?" he repeated. "What's wrong?" He couldn't imagine what might have caused her to close up like this, but whatever it was, it made him clench his fists as his rage boiled up again.

She tilted her head toward him, peeping at him with one eye, and said, "Everyone was yelling."

Eliot frowned. _Yelling?_ "Who was yelling, Parker?"

"Everyone," she said again, but to her stuffed bunny.

_Okay, different approach._ "Why were they yelling?"

"I don't know," she snapped, still not looking at him. "But everyone was yelling and we don't yell at each other, especially not Nate. Yelling means fighting and fighting means leaving and leaving means never coming back!"

Jesus … What in the hell had happened to her as a child? He didn't want to think about that, so he took a few deep breaths, clenched and unclenched his fists, and moved on. But something about who exactly had been yelling had caught his attention.

"Parker, why was Nate yelling?"

"I don't know! Everyone was yelling …"

Eliot took another deep breath. _Right. It's Parker. Spell things out._ "What happened, Parker?"

She lifted her head off of her knees, but still stared at her stuffed rabbit, holding it close with one hand and tugging at its ears with the other. Eliot could tell she did this fairly often, because the poor thing was in terrible shape.

"After you left, we all just kinda sat there for a little while. Then Nate said —" She cocked her eyebrows, and Eliot had to smile. Her droll, deadpan impression of Nate was dead-on. "'Well, you guys here in San Lorenzo sure know how to throw a welcome party. Gone for eight years, and he gets a few smacks and an accusation of not caring for his trouble.' Then Maria said —"

Parker made a face, and Eliot's smile widened. She may have only known Maria for about half an hour, but Parker had her down, too. "'Don't you dare judge me, Nathan Ford. You have no idea what I've been through the past eight years.' And Nate got scary quiet and said, 'And you have no idea what he's been through the past eight years' and Maria said, 'Oh, and you do?' Then Nate said, 'Yes, actually, I do. I chased him for five years, mostly for grand larceny of items my company insured — except for the few times when _I_ hired him to retrieve things,' and I didn't know that."

Eliot started. "What?" He'd been captivated by the story, but she'd suddenly become Parker again.

"I didn't know that you worked with Nate before. Like, _with_ Nate. On the same side."

Eliot was honestly surprised that Nate had mentioned that. "It was only twice. Nate knew he had limits, and there were a couple of really high-priced items …" He smirked. "Let's just say that IYS paid well so they didn't have to pay out."

"That's kinda cool. So, you knew Nate before? Like, when he was Insurance Investigator Nate, not _our_ Nate?"

"We met three times, Parker. We weren't friends or anything."

_"Eliot, you and I are not friends."_

_"Right. 'Cause you have so many of 'em …"_

"Still, that's pretty cool," Parker continued. "What did you steal for him? Or, retrieve, I guess …" Her eyes filled with a familiar sparkle. "Was it an ancient artifact? Ooh, or diamonds?" She bobbed up and down on the last phrase.

"Parker, can you finish telling me what happened?" Eliot said, exasperated. At least she didn't look upset anymore, and exasperation with Parker was both a familiar and welcome feeling.

"Right," she whispered. She went back to hugging her bunny.

_Dammit, you should have just told her about the diamond …_

"Well, then Nate said —" Parker's Nate impression was back. "'And for the past three years, we've been working together, with our team, to help people. He's put himself in harm's way for us countless times. He's taken hits for us, thrown punches for us, and been hurt for us. So don't you _dare _accuse him of only caring about himself. He's one of the most selfless people I know. And don't pretend you know him, either. Because he's right: if you think that about him, then you don't know Eliot Spencer at all.'"

Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. _Nate said that about me? To Maria?_

But Parker wasn't finished. "And then Maria said, 'You don't know him like I do, Nate Ford. So don't act all high and mighty like you understand him, because you don't. You don't understand the sacrifices we ––' and then Nate said, 'The sacrifices _you_ made? How difficult it must have been for you, being forced to stay around the people you care about. Did you ever think how much it hurt for him to be exiled? You have _no _idea the things he's sacrificed. He gave up his entire life here to keep you safe! And you think that means he doesn't care? Because I know the types of things that he's done in his life. Things he's done for _this team_!' He hit the table, and that's when he started yelling. 'Don't you dare talk to me about sacrifice, you crazy hormonal bitch!'"

"He said _what_?" Even after everything Maria had said, Eliot's rage boiled to the top at the thought of anyone speaking to her that way. He turned to the bed, but there was barely half a pillow left.

"Yeah," Parker said. "That made Sophie say, 'Nate!' in her mom voice, and then Matty started yelling, and Hardison, and Maria got this crazy look in her eyes … so I had to get out of there and be alone." She made herself small again.

Eliot couldn't completely process everything he'd heard. What did Nate know about the things he'd done …? His heart pounded and his breathing quickened as he realized what Nate must have been talking about. Had he told them, and Parker had just left too early? He'd promised he wouldn't tell them about the warehouse …

"Eliot, are you okay?"

He turned to Parker. Still clutching her bunny, she scooted to the edge of bed. She looked upset, but not like before; she wasn't making herself small, but she was wearing a frown.

"I'm fine," said Eliot automatically. She didn't need to know what was going on in his head.

Parker snorted. "You know we all have a joke about that? Like, we know that when you say, 'I'm fine,' it means the exact opposite? When you're really fine, you grumble and growl and say, 'Dammit, Hardison!' But when you're upset, you say you're fine. It's really confusing, actually."

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Did Sophie tell you that?"

Parker smirked. "Actually, Hardison and I figured that one out together. But Sophie explained why you do it. Something about being afraid of showing weakness and being emotionally something-or-other." She shrugged. "I wasn't really listening."

_No surprise there._ Of course Parker hadn't been listening. She had the attention span of a goldfish. And the same attraction to shiny objects.

"But really," she said, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and looking at him with growing concern. "You've been acting weird. Is it because of Moreau and San Lorenzo? And why you had to leave?"

He covered his face with his hand and lowered himself onto the bed across from Parker. He really didn't want to have this conversation with her.

"Nate was right, you know," Parker said. "She is a bitch. She made you cry."

Eliot's jaw, which had opened in surprise at hearing Parker say the word "bitch", dropped even farther as his eyes widened.

"Wha —? I wasn't crying, Parker," he stuttered, not meeting her eyes. "I was just —"

"Well, okay," Parker conceded. "You were boy-crying."

"What? I wasn't —"

"Sophie says that girls and boys cry differently." Parker spoke matter-of-factly; in fact, her tone was almost condescending. "Girls cry like normal, you know, like this."

She covered her face and gave the worst fake cry he'd ever seen. He was pretty sure she actually said the words _boo hoo hoo._

"But not boys," she said, uncovering her face and continuing as if nothing had happened. "Boys don't cry right. Sophie said it's because they bottle up their emotions and don't really learn how."

"Sophie really needs to stop talking to you …"

"So when boys cry, their eyes tear up, and their voices get all raspy, and they start breathing faster, and they say the truth about how they feel. And then they usually leave as fast as they can so they don't start really crying in front of people."

Eliot cringed. Had he really been so obvious that _Parker _had noticed?

"Apparently not all boys boy-cry, though. Sophie said that boys who are emotionally healthy or whatever cry right. Like Hardison. He doesn't keep his feelings inside. But boys who are emotionally damaged like you and Nate —" Eliot's eyes widened in horror. "They're the ones that boy-cry," Parker finished.

She looked him and finished simply, "So I don't like Maria. She made you boy-cry."

She paused, then continued slowly, as if thinking it through. "And it's stupid, too. Because it's not true. Like Nate said, you protect us and take care of us and make us food. And you said on the plane that you get scared when we're in trouble, because you're worried you won't be able to help us."

Dammit, this was why he hated talking to women about feelings!

"And on the plane you said that you like us. Which for boys is code for 'love.' That's what —"

"Sophie says, yeah, I got it," Eliot grumbled.

"Yeah. And you were even gonna go after Moreau to protect us." She looked at the bunny again. "You love them, too, don't you? You left San Lorenzo eight years ago and never came back so they would be safe. She's really stupid if she thinks those things about you. And she's mean. I hate her."

She squeezed and twisted the bunny, not in comfort, but in apparent anger. He was afraid she'd rip its head off.

"Don't hate her, Parker. She was just angry."

"Yeah, I guess …" She tugged at her bunny's ears, but gently now. "I would be mad, too, if you just left without saying goodbye. And you didn't come back for eight years." She took a deep breath, and when she looked at him her eyes were filled with tears. "You're not going to leave us, are you?"

Eliot's stomach sank like a rock. He couldn't tell her; she'd ask why, and she could never know why. But he couldn't lie to her, either. He could never lie to Parker. She was too … he didn't know what, but he just never could lie. Something about her always pried the truth from him at some point.

"If I did," he rasped. _Dammit. I'm not "boy-crying"! _He cleared his throat and tried again. "If I did, it would only be for the same reason I left them. To protect you."

It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth.

"But you'd say goodbye, right?" The expression of betrayal — the one on her face when she'd asked why he'd left San Lorenzo — had returned.

"Of course," he said automatically. He couldn't bear that look in her eyes. He'd figure out later how to keep it from being a lie.

She nodded, and her grip loosened on the bunny. "Okay."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Eliot was glad of it; he was tired of talking.

"Why does she call you her brother?" _So much for silence._ "She said you were like an uncle to her babies, and then Matty said, 'She lost _another _brother.'"

Eliot sighed. "You'd have to ask her that."

"I don't want to. She's creepy."

Whatever he'd expected her to say — _"I hate her"_, maybe –– that wasn't it. "She's what?"

"She's creepy."

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. "How is she creepy, Parker?"

"Um, she has two babies _growing inside her_," Parker said, as if it were obvious. "And she _talks_ to them. And they can hear her. And they can hear me. And they can _see_ me. It's creepy."

Where should he even start with that? "Parker, they can't see you —"

"How do _you_ know?"

"Because … there's … _stuff_ in the way!" Eliot made a vague gesture toward his torso. "And they can't hear what you say …"

Wait, was that true? How did they even get on this topic?

"Well, then how come she talks to them?"

He just stared at her, mouth gaping. He had no words.

"Wha — I don't — Parker, she's pregnant! It's a normal thing! Lots of pregnant women talk to their babies!"

Why the hell couldn't she talk to Sophie about this crap?

"Well I think it's creepy." Parker said it like that was the end of the argument, and Eliot dearly hoped it was.

"Why are you even here, anyway?" he snapped. She frowned, though, so he softened his tone. "You said you wanted to be alone. This isn't alone, Parker."

"Oh. Well, I didn't want to be _alone_ alone, just alone. You know?"

As ridiculous as it sounded, Eliot did know. There were times he wanted to be completely alone, away from the world. But there were other times he wanted to be left alone without actually being alone; then he could keep from getting too caught up in his head. He used to always crave the former, but since he'd joined the team, he found himself longing for the latter more and more frequently.

"So, why does she call you her brother?" Parker repeated, more quietly this time. She was playing with the bunny's ears again.

Eliot sighed. "Because her brother died a long time ago, and I kind of stepped in and acted like a big brother for her."

"Her brother died?" Almost a whisper.

_Shit_. Eliot had forgotten that Parker, too, had lost a brother a long time ago. But she had been too young to understand and hadn't received the right type of help at the time, and she'd obviously never been able to deal with her grief in a healthy way.

A familiar voice, one he hadn't heard in eight years, spoke in the back of his mind.

_"So… what's your excuse, El?"_

He shook his head, as if that would make the voice go away, and focused on Parker.

"Yeah, he did."

"How did he die?" Parker's voice was still small, and Eliot's heart squeezed.

"He was killed by one of Damien Moreau's men. He was very brave." Now his voice sounded as small as Parker's.

"Oh."

Suddenly Parker gave a small gasp, her eyes widening with realization … and fear.

"Did you …?"

The unfinished question literally knocked the breath out of him. He felt the bile rise in his throat, and he had to put his head between his knees to keep from emptying his stomach right in front of her. His eyes stung.

That question hurt even more than Maria's accusations.

Was that what they thought of him now? Would they always look at him like that, eyes filled with fear of the Rottweiler? Would they forever see him as a cold-blooded killer?

_This is why I have to leave_.

"Oh no! I'm sorry, Eliot, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Suddenly her arms were around him in a tight hug, and she buried her head in his neck. He looked up in surprise.

"You told me not to ask you! I'm sorry, I didn't think, I just … I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you boy-cry." She replaced her head on his shoulder and her arms squeezed tightly around his neck.

"Parker," he choked. She was actually choking him.

"Oh no!" she gasped again, removing her arms from his neck and bringing her hands to her mouth. "Does Maria know?"

"What? Parker, no! I didn't —"

This conversation was a fucking emotional roller coaster, and he was starting to get whiplash.

His voice had given out again, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. When he did, it was barely a whisper.

"No, Parker. I didn't kill him." He took a breath, then he added, his voice strong and acidic, "I caught the bastard who did, though."

"Really?" Parker asked. He could see, hear, and _feel_ her relief. "Okay. I won't ask you that again, I promise."

She hugged him, but more gently this time. His heartbeat started to return to normal, and the nausea receded.

"So did you kill him?" she asked as she pulled away.

_What the fuck?!_

"Parker, I just told you, I didn't —"

"I mean the man who killed Maria's brother. You said you caught him. Did you kill him?" Her eyes flashed darkly. "I hope you did."

He could _not_ keep up with this girl's thoughts. _Twenty pounds of crazy …_

"No. I didn't kill him. But I did stab him in the hand to keep him from killing the General."

She smirked. "So that was the once? Or the half?"

Eliot chuckled. "The once."

She fell silent, and Eliot was glad. It gave him a few moments to do an inventory of his emotions and try to settle on something neutral that would slow down his heart rate and regulate his breathing.

"So that's why, then."

He sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. "What's why what?" _Just stop talking and go away._ He wanted to be _alone_ alone.

"That's why Maria calls you her brother. Because you caught the guy who killed her real brother. That's why she loves you and missed you when you were gone. Even if she did make you boy-cry," she added, clenching her fists.

The observation made Eliot pause. All these years he'd felt guilty at the thought of replacing Berto Flores, but maybe Maria didn't think of him as a replacement. She loved him because he caught her brother's killer.

Why had that taken him eight years to figure out?

"So, what kind of things did you do?" Parker asked, once again as if he understood the unspoken context.

He felt the wave of nausea again. Why did she keep asking these things? Why couldn't she just leave?

"What kind of things did I do … for Moreau ... ?"

"No!" she said. She actually sounded irritated. "I promised I wouldn't ask about that anymore!" She softened her voice. "I meant what kind of things did you do for Maria. Big brother-y things."

"Oh ..." _Big brother-y things?_ "Well, uh ... I was there for her when she needed me. She knew that if she ever needed help, all she had to do was ask."

"Did you teach her how to fight?"

Eliot smiled as he remembered. "Yeah ... I did ..."

"I figured. She punches like you taught me how, by putting her hips into it. And since she's pregnant, she's got a lot of weight behind it." Parker smirked. "She caught you off-guard with that hit to the solar plexus, didn't she? You should have seen that coming."

His voice sounded more defensive than he'd intended. "Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting her to hit me that many times."

"She remembered what you taught her after eight years? You must have been a good teacher even back then." Eliot's heart lightened, but he couldn't tell if it was because of the compliment or her smile.

"So what else did you do?" she asked.

"I dunno. I just ... listened."

"Listened? How?"

"Well ... I was the first person she told that she was in love with Matty." He chuckled; he would never forget that dramatic confession.

"Oh."

Parker was suddenly quiet. When Eliot looked over at her, and she was tugging at the bunny's ears again.

"Parker, what's —"

"I have to tell you something."

Eliot blinked. "Um ... okay."

She took a deep breath and looked at him with eyes full of doubt. "Big brothers listen, right?"

What surprised Eliot the most was that he wasn't surprised at all. He'd never thought of himself as a brother to Maria; every time she'd called him that, he'd felt a pang of guilt. But Parker ... she'd always been like a little sister to him. From that very first job, when she ignored Nate's count and jumped off the building, when she stripped right in front of him in the elevator; from the first moment he'd said, "There's something wrong with you." There _was_ something wrong with her, but that's why he loved her. And he'd kick the ass of anyone else who said so. Or anyone who ever hurt her.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his smile was large and genuine. "Yeah, Parker. Big brothers listen."

Parker beamed, the doubt in her eyes turning to complete and utter trust. "Well," she said, turning back to her bunny. "I've been starting to have feelings. Weird feelings. For ..."

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. _Lemme guess … Pretzels?_ He knew exactly where this was going, and unlike with Maria, he knew it wasn't about him.

"For Hardison!" Parker blurted, eyes closed, as if she couldn't bear to see his reaction.

"I know." Eliot's smile grew.

She opened her eyes. "You do? How?"

"It's a very distinctive ... everything." He was grinning like a fool now.

"Oh." She smiled her beautiful smile. "So you're not mad?"

Eliot frowned. "Why would I be mad?"

"I dunno…" She shrugged. "Hardison's your best friend."

_"If you had a little sister, and she started dating your best friend, how would you feel?"_

He finally understood — in a way he would never have thought possible eight years ago — _exactly _how Berto Flores had felt.

"I'm definitely not mad, Parker. I'm happy that you feel that way." His heart overflowed with an odd sense of both deja vu and newness. "Hardison likes you too, by the way."

Parker crossed her arms. "You're supposed to listen, not talk."

"Um ... okay ..." Everything was always literal with Parker. "So ..."

She popped to her feet. "Here." She threw him a man's watch, which hit him hard in the chest. She really didn't understand how to toss things.

"What's this?" Had she stolen Hardison's watch or something?

"It's Ribera's. I lifted it while you were doing the puppy interview with Sparky. Nate says you need to put nicotine cream on it and then I have to give it back. It's for the debate. He's supposed to freak out and look drunk, remember?"

"Wait ... Are you done talking about Hardison?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Eliot's mouth stood agape for a few seconds. He could not keep up with this girl. _Five pound bag ..._

"No reason. Great. I'll take care of it and get it back to you."

"Hurry. The debate starts in ..." She grabbed the watch from him to check the time. "Ninety minutes. We should get back."

She went to "toss" the watch again, but he took it from her before she could. "Right," he said. "Go on ahead, give me a few minutes to ..." He looked around at the pillow corpses and their stuffing entrails.

"Sure." She turned to leave. "Oh, and if you need more pillows to punch, I have tons. I stole a bunch from the laundry room."

She left the way she had, presumably, come in — through the window.

Eliot stared after her in silence. Though emotionally and physically drained, he did feel better, but the room was too quiet now. He wished she would come back. He didn't want to be _alone_ alone anymore. Just alone.

He looked longingly at the bed, all the same.

"After it's done," he murmured.

_No rest for the wicked._


	14. Chapter 14

_Thank you everyone for your kind reviews! I love hearing from you! Thanks to quirkapotamus for her wonderful betaing and brainstorming, and to Valawenel for her constant love and support. Thank you all for reading!_

Chapter 14

The next few days were a blur. Eliot spent most of that time working with Parker on how to get the General and his men out. Hardison consumed much more than even his normal amount of orange soda, doing all the computer stuff behind the campaign — Eliot learned quickly not to bother him, or to ask him what he was doing. Sophie was with Vittori out on the campaign trail, and Nate was doing whatever it was he did during cons … plotting … ordering people around … generally being an asshole.

Eliot hardly saw Matty and Maria at all. Maria was also out campaigning for Vittori, and Matty went with her. Secretly, though, Eliot was glad of that; Nate wouldn't let Eliot himself go out with Sophie — "She'll be fine, and we need you here," he'd said, as if Moreau's men weren't just one order away from putting a bullet into her skull — but Vittori and Maria often gave joint campaign speeches, and Matty would be a reasonable deterrent for Moreau. He was a good soldier … even if Eliot did question his judgment about whom to take bullets for.

By the night before the election, he and Parker had a pretty solid plan to get her into the Tombs (even if it was crazy), and Nate had figured out how to get the rest of them down there, too. Now they just needed to brief Matty and make sure everyone knew where to be and when the next day.

Matty groaned as he walked through the door to the back room at campaign HQ, rubbing his neck and looking exhausted.

"Where's Maria?" Eliot didn't like idea of her being without Matty.

"With Sophie, just outside. They're talking about … whatever. It's like they've known each other forever."

"Yeah, Sophie's good at that. … How is she?"

"Maria? She's okay." Matty sighed as he flopped into the chair at the conference table next to Hardison. "She had quite a few big contractions today. Tried to hide them, but I can tell …"

Eliot frowned. _Maria shouldn't be hiding anything from you._

"I honestly have no idea what will happen if she goes into labor tomorrow," Matty continued.

"Don't worry," Nate said from his seat in the corner. "I've got that covered in Plans R through Z."

Matty's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Plans R through Z? You've planned for Maria going into labor? And … you actually letter your plans?"

"Yep!" Parker appeared right next to Matty, who jumped in surprise.

Eliot smirked — Matty's reflexes were almost as good as his, but Parker could get the jump on anyone.

"Hardison dies in Plan M!" Parker announced cheerfully.

"Plan M?" Matty turned to look at Hardison. "That's like, the first half of the alphabet."

"Don't get me started," Hardison mumbled without looking away from his laptop.

"But, wait … Is Plan M always the same?"

"Try not to think about it, Matty," said Eliot. "It'll just hurt your head."

"I want to hear these plans about Maria —"

"Just suffice it to say I've got it under control, and we'll address those plans if we get to them," said Nate. "So how'd it go today, Colonel?"

"Stop calling me that," Matty grumbled. "This isn't a mission, and you're not in the military. But you have this way of saying it that always reminds me of …" He tilted his head back and rubbed his face.

"Of who?" Parker asked.

Matty looked at Eliot. "Juan."

Eliot chuckled. "Yeah, he has that same …"

"Ability to convince you to do whatever he wants? Yeah, I noticed that."

"If you guys are done talking about me," Nate said with a smirk, "I'll ask again: how was your day, Matty?"

Matty groaned. "Okay, now you sound like my wife."

"And you're still deflecting." Nate's smirk evolved into the grin that always made Eliot want to punch him, and from the look on Matty's face, he could tell Matty dearly wanted hit the mastermind, too. "You can't con a con man, Colonel."

Matty glared, then sighed. "It went about as well as could be expected, considering what we're trying to do."

Nate cocked an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not really." Matty turned to Eliot. "So, you found a way in? Tell me your plan."

"Ooh, ooh, can I?" Parker asked. Without waiting for an answer, she said, "Hardison, run it!"

Hardison looked up from his furious typing. "Run what? I don't have a briefing for you. Y'all are on your own, I got tons of other crap to do."

"Come on, Hardison, I never get to say, 'Run it'! Can you just put the blueprints up on the screen?"

"Parker, the blueprints are right here on the table, why can't you just point at them?"

"Hardison, just put the blueprints up," said Nate.

"Seriously?!" When Nate didn't react, Hardison sighed and grumbled, "Fine." The blueprints appeared on the projection screen.

"Thank you." Parker beamed, and Hardison grinned in spite of himself as he turned back to his computer.

"So what's your plan?" Matty asked with his arms crossed and leg jiggling at a high frequency. "I've got to be honest, I've spent years poring over these plans and I've never found any way in other than the elevator. How are you going to get in?"

Parker spread her arms as if she were saying _Ta-da!_ and said, "The steam vent!"

Matty blinked. "The what?"

"The steam vent." Parker pointed to the location on the blueprints on the table, ignoring the ones that had just been projected on the wall. Hardison's jaw clenched, but he didn't break his typing stride.

"No, I heard what you said, I just …" Matty blinked again, then looked at Eliot. "What?"

"Why does everyone have that reaction?" Parker asked.

"Because it's a steam vent, Parker," said Hardison, rolling his eyes. "Normal people don't travel by steam vent. It's hot and it burns you."

Parker frowned. "But it's a dry heat."

"Parker, we've been through this," Eliot growled. _Three times just today._ "It's _not_ a dry heat! It's _steam_! It's literally the _opposite_ of a dry heat!"

"No it's not!" Parker countered. "The opposite of a dry heat is a wet heat, like swimming through a pool of boiling water. Which I've also done."

The four men in the room stared at her.

"What?" she asked. "The point is, the average human can withstand that type of heat for twenty-seven seconds."

She spoke as if that explained everything, but the additional information did nothing to stop the staring.

"There's something wrong with you," muttered Eliot.

Parker smiled and wiggled her eyebrows a few times.

"You can't possibly do that," said Matty with a shake of his head.

"Yes I can." Parker nodded vigorously. "I did something similar when I stole the Rosalind Diamond, only that steam vent was twice as long as this one. This'll be like stealing Louis the Fourteenth's portrait through the Louvre skylight."

Hardison leaned over to Matty. "That means it's easy … I think."

"Yeah, I got that," Matty snapped, and Hardison sat up a little straighter. "El, are you serious about this?"

Eliot had known this was going to be a hard sell, but he hadn't expected such a strong reaction. Was Matty nervous, or actually pissed? "Matty, we've studied these blueprints for days. You've studied them for years. This is the only way in."

Matty thought about it. "Can she do it?"

Eliot, Nate, Hardison, and Parker all said, "Yes," simultaneously.

The speed and synchronicity of their answers appeared to slightly alarm Matty, but then he looked Eliot in the eyes. "Juan's life is at stake here. Do you trust her with it?"

"Absolutely," Eliot said without hesitation. "She can get in."

"Okay. So she gets in and gets them out? What do we do?"

"That's just phase one!" Parker chirped. "The rest of the plan is even better!"

Matty's mood seemed to improve as they briefed him on the rest of the plan. By the time they finished, he was actually smiling.

"This is crazy," he said as he sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "With this going on in the background, and Sophie coaching Vittori, we might not have to steal anything. I think we might actually win."

"It doesn't matter who wins," said Nate quietly from the corner.

Matty blinked. "What do you mean, 'It doesn't matter who wins'?" As he spoke, Matty's voice rose a few notches as his face reddened. "If it doesn't matter, then why the hell are you here? Why are any of us here?"

_Uh-oh._

Eliot sighed. "It doesn't matter who wins, Matty, because Moreau will do whatever it takes to make sure that the winner is him."

"That's exactly the problem, El. How is what you're doing any different than what Moreau does?"

Eliot's heart skipped a beat. He knew Matty meant the team, not _him_, but that didn't make the words hurt any less.

"It's — It's different, Matty!"

"No it's not! Moreau and Ribera stole the last election, and now here you are trying to steal this one. This isn't right!"

"Ah," Nate said. "That explains your deflecting earlier."

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Ford. This whole thing is your idea. And I don't like it."

Just then the door opened and Sophie and Maria entered, laughing.

"… really done wonders with him!" Maria was saying. "You should do this for a living!"

"I do, darling," Sophie said.

As they looked around the room, they seemed to feel the tension, and their smiles faded simultaneously. But Sophie didn't miss a beat.

"So how's the planning going?" she asked, glancing at Nate.

"A little less well than a few minutes ago," Hardison murmured. He'd stopped typing.

"Matty doesn't want us to steal the country," Parker said.

Maria sighed. Eliot thought at first it was due to exhaustion, but then he watched her face darken.

"Matty, we've been over this. Ad nauseum. Every single night since —"

"Eliot came back, yes, I know." Matty rolled his eyes. "But you have yet to convince me it's a good idea."

Sophie stepped in. "Matty, do you think Ribera is bad for the people?" she asked in her con voice.

"Don't patronize me. I'm not Michael. You can't con me the way you've conned him."

"Matty." Maria's voice was pleading now; she looked exhausted again. "Can we talk about this later? Maybe we can set up a call with Papa, and —"

"I've talked with him already, Maria. Several times, in fact. And he, like you, is dead convinced that _stealing_ our country from the people, that _stealing_ the election, is the only way to win."

"Eliot and his team —"

"Oh yes," Matty sneered. "The prodigal son returns, and let's do it _his_ way! Maria, we have been working for eight years to try to win this country back! And you're willing to throw that all away just because Eliot comes back and says we can steal it instead?"

Eliot's stomach dropped to the floor. Matty and Maria never fought — not that he'd seen, anyway — and he didn't like the idea that it was because of his team. No, because of _him_.

"Throw it all away?" Maria's voice rose three octaves. "Throw what away? We've been fighting for this country a hell of a lot longer than eight years, Matty. We've been fighting since before your father died! And in all that time we haven't gained anything. In fact, we've lost ground! Moreau has a president in his pocket now, and he's worse than anyone we've ever seen. So yes, I am willing to try anything at this point, because I am tired of fucking losing!"

Her voice gave out on the last word. She was in tears now.

"I thought people weren't supposed to swear around your babies," Parker muttered.

"Parker," Eliot hissed. But no one else on the team rebuked her. They clearly had not forgotten that Maria had yet to apologize to him for what she'd said during their reunion.

Matty didn't make any move toward Maria, instead glaring unsympathetically at his crying, pregnant wife. Eliot's heart ached. The Matty he knew, who had proposed to Maria in the same breath that he first professed his love, would never have done that.

_What happened to them?_

"So that's it, then?" Matty's voice was cold. "You're willing to steal an election, just like Moreau?"

Maria's eyes widened, then flashed darkly. "What would you rather do? The same thing we always do? Just vote and hope for the best, and let Ribera win again?"

"I'd rather lose honestly than win like this!"

That was the last straw. "Dammit, Matty! Not everything is black and white!" Eliot smacked the table, and everyone in the room jumped.

Except for Matty. He was calm; Matty was always calm. He never yelled. Maria was hot; Matty was cold.

"Thank you, Professor Spencer, for that lesson in Ethics 101."

A sharp pain sliced through Eliot's heart. Matty always knew which knives to twist. Everyone in San Lorenzo did. Eliot had never been able to figure out what upset him more about Matty: the fact that he always took the moral high ground, or the fact that he had every right to be there.

"Well you haven't changed in eight years," Eliot hissed.

"Neither have you," Matty hissed back.

Eliot felt the team tense next to him.

"Now hang on right there," Nate said darkly.

Eliot gripped the back of the chair in front of him so hard his knuckles turned white. He hung his head and tried to breathe slowly. "I hate this fucking country."

"Then why don't you leave for another eight years?" Matty retorted.

Eliot's head snapped back up. "Dammit, Matty, I came back to —"

"You came back because you were forced to, so don't give me that bullshit —"

"That's enough! Both of you!" yelled Maria.

A tense silence fell over the room. Eliot and Matty glared at each other.

"Neither of you have changed in eight years!" Maria continued. "Always bickering, always arguing over the 'best' way. Well guess what! There is no best way. This whole thing is bigger than the two of you, and you'd think that after eight years, you'd have learned to grow the hell up!"

A memory, one that Eliot hadn't thought of in years, flashed in his mind.

.

.

.

"Dammit, Matty, we can't spend days planning this out! We have to hit him now!"

"I'm not saying we spend days, El, just that maybe we take a step back to think this through. We need an actual plan." Matty's voice was raised a couple notches above its normal volume, and his face was slightly flushed; he was pissed. "We can't just barge in there and hope for the best!"

"Hope for the best? You're kidding, right? I know his organization, I understand —"

Pete pushed his chair away from the table as loudly as possible and stood up; the commanders all turned their heads at the noise.

As he moved to leave the room, the General said, "Excuse me, Pete, where do you think you're going? This meeting isn't over yet."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I was just going to go pee," Pete said, to the chuckles of the room. "I figured they'd still be at this when I got back. Can I get you guys anything?" He looked around the room. "Coffee? Tea? Popcorn?"

More chuckles, and then Pete turned to Eliot and Matty, who had stopped arguing. His face was filled with something close to disgust. "I've seen this movie before, and it's getting a little old."

He moved back to his seat, leaned forward to place his hands on the table, and looked between the two of them.

"The longer you guys argue about whose strategy is the best, the longer Moreau has to prepare. And I gotta say, I am getting damned tired of him being so much more prepared than we are. So maybe you two could take a couple breaths, think about what's important, and work together to come up with something we can work with."

He stood up straight and shrugged, and then he grinned. "And if that doesn't work, maybe you can just rock-paper-scissors it."

.

.

.

Eliot snorted at the memory — he hadn't thought about that in years.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" Matty asked, his lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. He'd clearly remembered the same moment Eliot had.

Eliot started to smile, but then the pain in his heart overwhelmed it, and he turned away.

"So, should I try to make a joke right about now, or did that just happen in your heads?" Maria's eyebrow was cocked, and she wore a smirk similar to the one that always made Eliot want to punch Nate in the face.

"Ooh, ooh! I know a good joke!" Parker raised her hand like she was in class. "Knock, knock."

Eliot expected Hardison to placate her, until he realized she was looking at him. "Knock, knock," she repeated slowly, as if he hadn't heard.

He rolled his eyes. "Who's there?" He saw Matty smirk in his peripheral vision and glared at him.

"Cow." Parker was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet now, ready to burst from the excitement of the punchline.

Eliot let her relish it for a long moment before asking, without a shred of her excitement, "Cow who?"

"No, cow _moo_!" she blurted, then exploded into a fit of giggles. "Get it? Because cows moo?"

Eliot shook his head and smiled in spite of himself. Her laughter was infectious. The tension dissipated as everyone chuckled. Eliot was reminded of Pete, and when he met Matty's eyes, he could tell the other man was thinking the same.

As he felt Parker's joke and his own smile leech the tension from the four members of his team, it did not escape his notice that they had been willing to go to bat for him. Against Matty. His heart squeezed as he thought again about leaving when this job was finished.

_Cut it out, Spencer. It's for the best._

_"Best for whom?"_ said the grammatically correct voice in his head again, the one he hadn't heard in eight years. He pushed it from his mind.

"First of all, I'd like to set the record straight," said Nate, walking toward the conference table from his corner. "We are all here because we want to be. No one was forced into anything." He looked pointedly at Matty. "We stopped Moreau from selling a bomb and set him up to take the fall for an awful lot of crimes. But he scampered off to San Lorenzo… no extradition treaties."

"You guys should get on that, by the way," Hardison muttered.

Matty and Maria glared at him.

"Moreau was out of our hands," Nate said, commanding their attention again. "But I wasn't satisfied. I wanted him done. I wanted to make sure he could never hurt anyone ever again. So I asked them all to help me finish him. I told them that if any one of them" — he glanced in Eliot's direction, and Eliot rolled his eyes. _Seriously, Nate?_ — "said no, that we would walk away. And no one did. _No one_ did." He looked Matty in the eyes. "Just so we're clear."

Matty's gaze flickered toward Eliot, who rolled his eyes again. _We get it. I didn't say no. Can we move on?_

Nate continued. "We want to get rid of Moreau just like you do. Although probably not quite as badly." He paused, then asked quietly, "When did your father die?"

Matty straightened and crossed his arms. "Nineteen years ago. He was killed by Moreau's men." Matty's voice was cool and his gaze was steady, but Eliot saw his jaw clench and knew that inside, he was anything but.

Nate's eyes widened. "Nineteen years?"

"How old were you?" Parker's voice was small.

"Eleven," Matty said. Maria moved toward him and touched his arm gently. He didn't acknowledge it.

Sophie brought her hand to her mouth, and Parker hugged herself. Hardison reached to touch her, but she flinched away.

Nate put his hands flat on the table, hanging his head. Then he turned slightly toward Eliot and said, "You should have told me that."

Eliot's rage boiled to the top again. _How in the hell is this my fault?_ "What, so now you don't just need to know about my past, you need to know Matty's, too? I didn't think it was any of your damned business, Nate!"

Nate stood up straight. When he spoke, his voice was cold. "It would have been nice to know how long Moreau's had this country in his death grip."

"Why, so you can get more pissed and take even bigger risks?" Eliot snarled. He knew he shouldn't be doing this in front of everyone, but he couldn't help it. Nate had started it.

The mastermind's mouth formed a grim line. "We said no more secrets, Eliot."

"It wasn't a fucking secret! I didn't think —"

"Parker, do you have any more jokes?" Sophie interrupted. "I think we might need another one."

"Oh yeah, I've got lots! What do you get when —"

"I don't think we need one right now, Parker," Nate said. He tried to meet Eliot's eyes, but Eliot turned away. He couldn't look at Nate, especially not now, when all he wanted to do was deck the man.

He gripped the back of the chair has hard as he possibly could. He tried to count to ten, but couldn't force the rage away. He badly needed to hit something, but remembered he only had three of Parker's stolen pillows back in his room. If he didn't calm down, he was going to explode, and that wouldn't be good for anyone. So he did the only thing he could think of.

"Tell us your joke, Parker."

"Okay," she chirped. "What do you get when you cross an elephant and a rhino?"

Eliot breathed slowly, still gripping the chair, eyes still closed. "What?"

"Elephino! Get it? Elephino sounds like 'Hell if I know'!" She giggled.

Eliot could tell she was bouncing up and down again. He felt the rage fade into the background; it wasn't gone completely, but at least he was no longer in danger of exploding. For now.

He opened his eyes and smiled at Parker. "That was a good one."

She beamed, and his heart lightened — but only a fraction.

He knew his rage still simmered close to the top; he needed to get as far away from these people as possible. But he couldn't leave now; not before Matty was convinced that they were not — that _he _was not — like Moreau. So he retreated to the corner of the room opposite from Nate's and stood against the wall with his arms crossed.

Everyone was staring at him. He glared; the effect was instantaneous.

Nate was the last to look away; as his eyes dropped to the floor he frowned, heaved a large sigh, and shook his head.

_Fuck you, Nate. I know I'm just a big disappointment to you. I can do without the dramatics._

Nate pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Sit," he said to Matty.

Matty did as he was told without hesitation. Eliot's lips curled into the slightest of smirks: Nate did have that "ability to convince you to do whatever he wants," as Matty had so succinctly put it. _He just uses it differently than Juan._

Everyone else sat, too: Sophie next to Nate; Maria next to Matty; and Parker next to Hardison, who had never stood up from his computer in the first place.

No one dared to look at Eliot this time. He wasn't moving from his spot.

"Matty," Nate began. "You are a good, honest man. Trust me when I tell you that is the highest compliment I can possibly pay."

Matty glanced Eliot, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"But you're not naïve. In fact, that makes your honesty even more admirable," Nate added, almost to himself. "But we can't beat Moreau honestly. If we could, you guys would have done it by now. It doesn't matter who wins the election because Moreau and Ribera will stuff as many ballot boxes as necessary to ensure that _they_ do."

"But the election inspectors —"

"Have no real power but publicity. That keeps us alive, but everyone already knows Ribera is corrupt. That's why the inspectors are here in the first place. If we let the election play out naturally, the only difference between this one and the last one is that the world would know it was fixed. And you'd be right back where you started." Nate looked Matty in the eyes. "We have to do it this way, because Moreau can't be beaten any other way. He's going to steal the election. The only way to stop him is if we steal it first. The difference is, we're going to give it back to the people. Moreau won't. We're stealing it back _for _the people. Then we'll hand it over to Vittori, and the General, and Maria, and you."

Matty looked at the table, and then turned to his wife for the first time since she'd come over. She grabbed his hand, and they seemed to have a silent conversation. After what felt like an eternity, he squeezed her hand and turned to look vacantly at a spot in front him on the table. Then he shook his head, ran his free hand through his hair, and met Nate's eyes again.

"I just wish there was a better way."

"So do I," Nate said.

"Sometimes bad guys are the only good guys you get." Parker's voice was quiet, but strong.

Sophie and Hardison smiled at Parker. Nate and Maria didn't remove their gazes from Matty, who was looking at a spot on the table again.

When he finally looked up, it was Eliot's eyes he met. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He nodded, and Eliot returned it.

Matty turned to his wife and kissed her forehead, and they smiled at each other, but Eliot frowned. The kiss was almost … chaste, nothing like the passionate, loving kisses they used to share. And their smiles seemed forced, as if they were putting on a show. Eliot hoped it was the stress of the past week, and that things would change after the election, but he doubted it; the strain of living in the shadow of Moreau had crushed stronger relationships than theirs.

"You look exhausted," Matty said.

"Well that was uncalled for." Maria's frown was good-natured.

Matty's smile was dashing and ornery. "If you had let me finish, you would have heard me say, 'And yet you can make even that look amazing.'"

Maria rolled her eyes. "Nice recovery, Ramirez."

Eliot allowed a small smile. That was the Matty and Maria he remembered.

"We should get home," Matty said, helping his wife to her feet. "Big day tomorrow."

"That's the understatement of the decade," Maria muttered.

They all laughed, except for Eliot. He didn't think it was funny.

As the laughter died away, Maria looked at her husband with tears in her eyes. "I had to say good night to Berto over the phone again. Did you say good night?"

Guilt flashed across Matty's face. "They were walking me through tomorrow."

Eliot felt a pang. He only knew a few things about Berto Ramirez: he was three years old; he had trouble distinguishing red and blue; he slept in a big boy bed — in a safe house, not his own home; and for the past week he'd had to tell his parents good night over the phone. And sometimes not even then.

His fists clenched. Hardison was right about one thing: he did have a soft spot for children — especially the children of old friends. The hacker just didn't know why.

"It's all right." Maria stroked Matty's cheek. "You can kiss him good night when we get home."

Matty's expression didn't change.

"So, what is the plan?" Maria's question was spoken to Matty, but directed at the room. Her voice was light. "What's the way in? I've been waiting all day! Did they find something we didn't?"

Matty chuckled. "Yes. The steam vent."

"The … steam vent?" Maria looked nonplussed. "How …?"

"I'll explain on the way home. But suffice it to say that the average human can withstand that type of heat for twenty-seven seconds." He winked at Parker and smirked. "Who knew?"

Maria raised an eyebrow. "How long is the steam vent?"

"Apparently about half as long as it could have been," Matty said.

Maria smiled at the team in bewilderment. "When this is all over, we are going to have dinner, and you're going to tell us about some of your adventures."

"Preferably without making us accessories," Matty mumbled. "Let's go, _mi vida_."

"Good night, everyone," Maria said. "See you tomorrow."

"Good night," everyone said.

Except Eliot. "Call me when you get there."

Matty turned and flashed his most dashing smile. He gave an unofficial salute. "Aye, aye, Commander." He and Maria left, laughing.

_Now that's different._ Matty never used to make so many cracks about serious matters. He must have gotten that from Pete over the last eight years.

_"You should try it sometime, El,"_ said the voice in his head. _"It makes things considerably less awful."_

With effort, Eliot pushed the voice from his head again.

"All right, everyone, we'll meet again at six," Nate was saying. "Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

_You have no idea, Nate._


	15. Chapter 15

_I know this is later than usual, but I needed a bit of extra time to get the emotional flow just right. Thanks to quirkapotamus for all her pushing for better and better until it's perfect; and thanks to Valawenel for her constant long-view and encouragement. And thank you to all of you who have been reading and are still reading, and especially to those who leave such nice reviews! They make my day!_

Chapter 15

Eliot slammed the button on the alarm before it could finish its first blare.

_Shit._ He'd _smashed_ the alarm before it could finish its first blare. Well, add that to the bill, along with all the pillows he'd beaten the stuffing out of.

Had the clock still been functioning, it would have read _5:00 a.m._

Election Day.

Eliot rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. He'd reacted instantaneously to the alarm not because his reflexes were so quick — although they definitely were — but because he was already awake. He hadn't slept a wink all night.

Actually, that wasn't true; he _had_ slept for a bit, only to wake up screaming in terror. He could have sworn the team had heard him, since they were all in adjacent rooms. But, if they had, no one had come to check. It was just as well –– he didn't like company after nightmares. Not anymore.

After waking up, he'd found some peppermint tea in the room — always peppermint tea after nightmares, because it cleared the sinuses and woke up the brain — and as he remembered with a pang the last time he'd had peppermint tea in San Lorenzo, he forced all images and thoughts from his mind. He refused to even acknowledge the actual probability of the nightmare becoming reality before the end of the day. So he'd finished his tea, turned out the lights, and gotten back into bed, alternating between staring at the ceiling and the clock until the alarm blared.

As he got into the shower, he thought about how the day would unfold. Failure wasn't an option. San Lorenzo's war with Moreau — _his_ war with Moreau — would end today. Only one of them would be left standing, and he'd be damned if it was going to be Moreau.

Eliot didn't even care if anything happened to him, because none of this was about him. It never had been. It was about the General, and Maria and Matty and their family; it was about Pete, and Sarah, and Berto Flores, and the Perezes, and everyone else Moreau had hurt during his 18-year reign of terror in San Lorenzo. It was about making sure that Moreau couldn't hurt anyone else again. That was the team's job.

And his job was to keep the team alive to make it happen.

_Bring it on, Moreau._

.

.

.

"Okay," said Nate to the room. "So is everyone clear on the plan and their roles?"

Eliot looked around the table at the nodding heads: Sophie was clearly preparing to "get into character"; Parker was vibrating with uncontained excitement, ready to pop from her chair the minute Nate gave the go-ahead; Hardison hadn't stopped typing since they'd sat down — Eliot wasn't even sure he'd slept; and Maria and Matty simply nodded.

Eliot had been watching the couple since they'd come in. They were both clearly nervous, but they were doing a pretty good job of hiding whatever else they were thinking. Eliot couldn't help but wonder if he'd imagined their fight the previous night.

"Remember," Nate continued. "Vittori stays in the dark. He can't know what we're doing."

"Why not?" Parker asked, even though they'd been through this a hundred times.

Sophie, infinitely patient with Parker as always, said, "Because then his reactions will be real. He's gotten better, but he's still not very good at hiding what he's feeling. We need him to be as surprised as the rest of the country."

"And this way he'll be protected in case things go south and the election is investigated," Nate added.

Matty threw a glance at Maria, who either didn't notice or refused to acknowledge it.

_Shit._ Not only had their fight — to steal or not to steal San Lorenzo — definitely happened last night; it was still going on.

"One more thing," said Nate. "If things do go south, and we have to pull the plug, I want everyone to meet at the extraction point."

"Which is where?" Maria asked.

This was why Eliot had hoped Nate would wait to mention the exit plan until Matty and Maria had left.

Nate hesitated. "It's safer if you don't know."

That was the wrong thing to say. "You're planning for things to go wrong?" Maria's voice trembled ever so slightly.

"It's standard military procedure, Maria," Matty said. "Always have an exit strategy."

"Oh, it's 'standard procedure' is it?" his wife asked, making air quotes with her fingers. "Well, their exit strategy doesn't seem to include us, so do we have one?"

Now it was Matty's turn to hesitate. His jaw tightened for a moment. "Yes," he said curtly.

Maria's eyes widened. "Well, are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Later."

"We're running out of later, Matty! Today is D-Day!"

"Technically, it's E-Day," Parker interjected. "E for election."

"I think what Matty is trying to tactfully say," said Sophie, voice smooth as silk, "is that he'll tell you when we're not around. It's —"

"Safer that way," Maria whispered. "Right." She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and took a deep breath. It looked as though it was taking all her energy not to burst into tears.

Matty reached out, as if to touch her arm, but just before his fingers made contact, he froze, curled them into a fist, and withdrew.

_Why? Comfort your wife, dammit!_

"All right, then," Nate continued awkwardly. "Let's go st ––" His eyes darted toward Matty. "Let's go, guys," he finished weakly.

"Wait!" Parker shouted.

Even Hardison looked up from his typing.

Parker's arms were crossed as she stared stubbornly at the mastermind. "You didn't say it, Nate! What are we stealing?"

Nate, along with the rest of the room, looked toward Matty, then back to Parker. "Parker, we don't need to —"

"You have to say it," Parker insisted. "You always say it. Otherwise it'll be bad luck."

For one long, tense moment, no one said anything.

Finally, Sophie stepped in. "Parker, why don't we —"

"Bad luck, huh?" Matty asked. He looked at Parker with an expression Eliot couldn't quite read.

Parker nodded vigorously.

Matty leaned forward in his chair, speaking directly to her. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" His lips curled into a tiny smile, and then he spoke in a patient yet animated voice that Eliot imagined he only used with his son. "We've already got everything else going against us… I think we need all the help we can get."

He looked at Nate expectantly.

Eliot couldn't believe it. Had Matty Ramirez just officially given them permission to steal his country?

Eliot glanced at Maria, who looked even more surprised than he himself felt; she had actually turned in her chair to look directly at her husband, her eyes wide with disbelief and a growing smile on her face.

Nate was not so easily convinced of Matty's intentions. "Well, we're really just _borrowing_ the country, if you think about it …"

But Parker, who couldn't take a hint if you wrapped it in money and waved it in front of her face, was not deterred. "No we're not. We're stealing it! From Moreau!"

"Well, I certainly hope you're not borrowing it from him." Matty raised an eyebrow and spoke to Parker in that same voice as before –– it was … gentle and understanding, but not patronizing. This was a side of him Eliot had never seen.

Parker snorted. "I'm a thief. I don't borrow things."

"You steal them, right? From the bad guys?" Matty was looking at Parker with the same smile, but he wasn't speaking to her –– he was speaking to the rest of the room.

"Yep. For the good guys!" She beamed and bobbed up and down in her seat, as if stealing things for the good guys was the most exciting thing in the world for her — which it was.

Matty leaned back in his chair. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Parker, and he wore the same … _fatherly_ smile as before.

"Well that settles it." He looked at Nate. "So, are you gonna say it, or not?" He winked at Parker.

Maria flashed him a bright, sincere smile, and he — finally — reached out to touch her arm.

Nate met Matty's eyes and gave one of his short, quick nods. "All right, then. Let's go steal a country."

Parker stood up so quickly that she almost knocked over Hardison's bottle of orange soda, but Eliot caught the soda before it spilled. Hardison barely noticed; he was back to typing at light speed.

"I've never stolen anything as big as a country before!" exclaimed the thief.

Everyone else stood up to leave; as Matty helped Maria to her feet, he asked, "So, he always says that, huh?"

"Yep!" Parker chirped right in his ear, behind his back.

Matty jumped in surprise. Even Eliot wasn't sure how she'd gotten around the table so fast.

"Let's see, we've stolen a mountain — that's almost as big as a country — and a championship racehorse, and a wedding, and a fashion show …"

As Parker babbled, Eliot took the opportunity to reassess the moods of the rest of the team. Nate had retreated to his planning corner, Hardison was back to typing, and Sophie was — Eliot did a double-take.

Sophie was looking at — no, _ogling_ — Matty's ass.

_Really, Soph?_ He raised his eyebrows as she turned her gaze toward him. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more about the smile she gave as a response to his unspoken question: the fact that her eyes flicked to Matty, who was wearing his military uniform; the look in her eyes as they flicked back to Eliot; or the fact that she seemed to know exactly what Eliot was thinking.

Eliot sighed. He didn't have time to think about Sophie's libido right now — or ever.

"… and a miracle –"

"Whoa, wait, how do you _steal _a miracle?" Matty had clearly gotten sucked in to Parker's black hole of conversation.

"Well, Hardison made the statue cry, and then everyone thought it was because of God or something, and then –"

Matty's jaw dropped. "You faked a miracle? Jesus, is nothing sacred to you people?"

Before Eliot could comment on the irony of that statement, Hardison, without stopping his typing, said, "Hey, that was all Nate. He's the one who used to be a priest."

Eliot failed to hide a grin as both Matty and Maria straightened up and whipped around to look at Nate, who was clearly caught off-guard by Hardison's revelation. Eliot couldn't believe he hadn't made the connection earlier himself — San Lorenzo was devoutly Catholic, and the Flores family was no exception. Juan and Matty, as soldiers, were particularly God-fearing and -praying. Matty and Maria's Catholic wedding, at which Eliot had served as best man, still remained the longest, most boring wedding ceremony he'd ever attended. Too many responsibilities for someone who had no clue what was happening. There was a reason he hadn't been the first choice, but he'd had to fill in because –

"He was never a priest, Hardison." Sophie's sharp, shrill voice, an octave higher than normal, sliced through Eliot's thoughts like a guillotine. "He spent a few years in seminary school, that's all. He wasn't celibate or anything!"

It wasn't until six pairs of eyes widened to stare at her that she seemed to realize, with growing horror, that she'd even spoken aloud.

That gave Eliot the read on her mood he'd searched for earlier — clearly he wasn't the only person on the team nervous about today's outcome — as well as another example of, if not a reason for, Sophie's libido.

Usually Sophie would have been the person to diffuse such a situation. Fortunately, however, Maria was a politician, and all politicians have some degree of grifting ability. It took her a second longer than it probably would have taken Sophie, but she turned and hit Matty playfully on the shoulder as she said with a laugh, "You know, if he spent time in the seminary, that would explain why he seems to have such power over you. More than a decade serving under Papa taught you to respect officers, and twelve years of Catholic school taught you to respect nuns and priests!"

Unfortunately, Maria's solution only served to shift the discomfort to Matty.

"What?" His awkward chuckle stretched the word into multiple syllables, each higher in pitch than the last. He rubbed the back of his head as he turned to Nate. "I never said –– were you — were you actually in the seminary?"

Nate, obviously wholly unprepared for this line of questioning, chuckle-stuttered in reply. "Well, I wasn't — I just –– you know — we stole a Parker once," he said, not-so-subtly deflecting.

"Whaaat? Nuh-uh!" Parker responded with her characteristic enthusiasm. An audible sigh of relief spread through the room.

"Yeah," Hardison said. He'd resumed typing. Eliot could never understand how Hardison could carry on a conversation and type at the same time; Eliot couldn't even type without looking at the letters. "When you were stuck in the Wakefield building, we went to your warehouse and found your plans, and then Nate said, 'Let's go steal a Parker.'"

Parker looked like a child on Christmas morning. "Oh man! I have to add that to my list!"

While they were talking, Maria leaned over the table and quietly asked, "Eliot, can we talk for a minute, in private?"

"… can't believe you stole a 'me'! That's –"

Apparently Maria hadn't said it quietly enough, because the room fell deadly silent.

Parker crossed her arms as her face — and voice — darkened. "No. You can't."

Nate walked from his corner to his previous place at the head of the table.

Hardison had stopped typing and looked defiantly at Maria as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, too. "Yeah, I can't stop working. Too much stuff to do."

None of them took their eyes off of Maria.

So Eliot looked to Sophie, who always kept the peace.

But Sophie flashed a dangerous smile. "Maria, darling, anything you want to say to Eliot, you can say in front of us, surely."

Eliot didn't need to see Matty's eyes flicker to each member of the team to see what was happening. They had Maria surrounded, and they weren't backing down. Not this time.

Eliot almost laughed out loud as Matty tensed and looked to the exits. _Your expertise won__'t help you here, Matty._ His realm was physical, like Eliot's. And like Eliot, he couldn't protect against the digital acrobatics of Hardison, or the grifting talents of Sophie; the crazy, daring feats of Parker, or the mental manipulations of Nate.

_My team is taking down Damien Moreau today, Matty. Do you honestly think you can stop them?_

His heart swelled with pride, with gratitude, with _love_ for these people. They were willing to risk everything to take down Moreau, but they were just as willing to use their powers to protect him from Maria.

_Why am I leaving, again?_

_"Yeah, why are you?"_ said that voice again, the one Eliot hadn't heard in eight years. He pushed it from his mind as he decided to deal with that question later.

"Guys –" The lump in his throat was larger than he'd anticipated. He tried again. "Guys, she just wants to talk."

"Yes, and that went so well last time." Nate's voice was icy and calm. He was almost whispering, but he commanded the room. "No, I think maybe the two of you should go vote. We'll let you know when we need you."

A chill shot up Eliot's spine. Scary Nate was … scary.

And it was all for him.

He stood up and cleared his throat loudly. "I'd like to talk to her, guys." He looked into each of their faces — Nate's for barely a moment — in an attempt to silently convey his gratitude. They each nodded in response, except one.

"No," said Parker. "I don't want ––"

"Please," Eliot added, his tone more pleading than he expected or intended.

At that, Parker's face softened and she, too, nodded.

They all moved to leave, but Parker pointed her finger in Maria's face, staring for a moment too long before Sophie grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her out the door. Hardison punctuated his shuffling with grumbling about "work to do," but Eliot knew it was for show.

As for Nate, he threw Maria one final dark glare before closing the door behind him.

"Well," Maria said. "That was … enlightening."

"Yeah …" said Matty, staring at the door.

Maria looked at her husband. "You can leave now, too."

"Wait — what? Out there? With them?"

"I think you'll be fine."

Matty glanced at Eliot. "I'd actually like to stay, to make sure –"

"Out, Ramirez!" Maria barked, and Matty winced. Eliot couldn't blame him; in that moment, Maria sounded not unlike her father when he was shouting orders. If she'd said _Eliot__'s_ name like that, he probably would have scampered from the room — and Eliot Spencer never "scampered" anywhere.

But the wince lingered a little too long; the pain in Matty's eyes was evident.

They were not okay.

But Matty forced his face into a playful mask. "Cheater," he grumbled good-naturedly and walked to the door, but before he left, he turned back to the nearly empty room. "I just want to be clear: this is not a surrender. This is… a tactical retreat." His eyes narrowed playfully at his wife, but Eliot could still see a hint of pain. "This isn't over, Flores."

Then he, too, walked out, leaving Eliot and Maria alone.

Maria rolled her eyes as she waddled around the table to sit in Hardison's vacated chair. "He's so melodramatic. It drives me crazy sometimes."

"You used to love that about him. The way he proposed –"

"When it was big romantic gestures, yes. Now it's just overreactions to things like me wanting to speak with you."

That wasn't the answer Eliot had hoped for. _What happened to them?_

She looked away, and they both fell silent, but Eliot continued to stare at her. She was the one who had asked to talk; she would be the one to start this conversation.

"Eliot, I –" When she finally raised her face, her eyes were shining slightly. "I'm so sorry."

That was it. That was all he'd wanted or needed. As much as her words the other day had hurt, he'd known she hadn't meant it; he had just wanted her to acknowledge it. But now she was close to tears, and Eliot couldn't have that. So he leaned forward and said, "Can you repeat that? I don't think I heard you."

The glare she threw at him could have pierced a kevlar vest, but he just grinned.

A smile crept into her voice. "Really? You're going to make me say it again?"

"Damn right." His grin grew wider.

"I'm sorry I said all those awful things to you." She sniffed and wiped her cheeks with her hands, and Eliot took a breath as if to speak –– he wanted her to smile now, not cry.

But Maria wasn't finished. "I didn't mean them. I was just … I was just so angry and hurt, Eliot. I've spent eight years hating you for leaving. I always knew why you left, and I understood. It just hurt so much. I lost you, just like I lost Berto, and so soon after …"

Eliot inhaled sharply but then exhaled in relief when she wiped the last of her tears and started a new thought.

"I know you probably think I was being selfish, but —"

"Maria, selfish is the last word I'd use to describe you."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Because it was the exact word you used the other day."

She was right. Eliot sighed. "I think we both said things we didn't mean. I'm sorry about that."

"But I _was_ selfish, just not how you meant it. It had honestly never crossed my mind how much you were hurt by being forced to leave. In fact, it wasn't until Nate said ––"

"Oh, I heard what he said," Eliot growled. "I still owe him a black eye for calling you what he did."

Maria shook her head. "Don't. He was right. I was being a bitch … though I could have done without the 'crazy, hormonal' part, but … he called me on my selfishness. You had to leave us all. And I never thought about how much that must have hurt you … God, I just hate that bastard so much!" She hit the arms of the chair with her clenched fists.

_So do I, Maria._

Her eyes met his, and she took a deep breath. "I just … I wish more than anything that you had said goodbye."

The lump was back in Eliot's throat. If he could have gone back and changed anything about the night that he left, it would have been that.

"Me too."

She smiled through her tears, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around him. "I missed you so much, El."

"I missed you, too, darlin'."

They sat there for a minute, in each other's arms. Eliot didn't think about anything else in that moment — not the team, or Moreau, or Juan. Just Maria, and how much he'd missed her.

"Those horrible things I said — I know they aren't true." She pulled away and met his eyes again. "It's obvious that you love us — still, after all these years. You love them, too. What they did there, when I asked to talk with you? That was …" She smiled. "It was lovely. Do you know how much they care about you?"

Eliot looked away. He didn't like where this was going.

"You're going to leave them, aren't you?"

He stood up and walked away from her. She didn't get it. And she never would. After what happened in the warehouse — he'd become _that man_ again. In that moment, everything he'd worked for, everything he'd done for the past eight years, meant nothing. He'd become the Rottweiler again, in spite of Juan, in spite of the team — and if they couldn't change him, nothing would.

They deserved better.

"Maria, I –"

She surprised Eliot by shaking her head. "Never mind. You're right. I promised myself I wouldn't bring this up now. You need to focus on today. But the minute all of this election crap is over, Eliot Spencer, I'm starting in on this. I won't let you leave another family behind. You need them."

"We should get out there..."

But Maria hesitated. "About last night … Matty is sorry for the things he said, too."

"No. That doesn't count. You came in here and apologized to me yourself. He needs to do the same. He doesn't get a free pass."

Maria heaved a large sigh; she looked exhausted. "Eliot, I wanted to apologize now because I don't know what's going to happen today. If something goes wrong … I just wanted to clear the air, to make sure we're okay. But with Matty… there's too much air to clear between the two of you to deal with right now. Neither of you need the distraction."

"There wouldn't be so much air to clear if he didn't insist on being such a sanctimonious asshole about everything."

"You're not being fair." Maria set her jaw. "You have no idea what this has been like for him, you coming back after all these years. You just left, Eliot. You didn't say goodbye. I think that hurt him even more than it hurt me, because he's lost so many people in his life, and he never got to say goodbye to any of them."

Eliot had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He and Matty had never been on great terms, and their relationship had been in tatters by the time he'd left — he highly doubted his leaving had affected Matty in any way other than a positive one.

But Maria wasn't finished talking about Matty. "And then there's your relationship with Papa –"

"Oh come on! Is he seriously still on about that?" _Get over it, Matty!_ "He's the one that's here, fighting for San Lorenzo. I haven't been back in eight years. You'd think that'd be proof enough that Juan loves him as his own son."

"It's not as simple as that! Yes, after you left, they talked about it and things have been better for a while now, but you coming back just opens up old wounds, and –"

This time Eliot actually rolled his eyes. "Maria, I don't have the time or energy to deal with Matty's insecurities."

"And neither does he. That's why he's not in here." She paused, then continued quietly. "And for the record, he's not the only one with insecurities."

_"She's right, you know."_ The voice in his head was really starting to get annoying.

_Shut up! I don__'t have time for this crap!_ "We really should get out there, Maria."

"One more thing, Eliot." She stared at her hands, which were sitting in her lap. "I — I need you to do something for me, please."

Her voice was trembling.

"Anything."

"I need you to get Matty to sit out today."

Eliot's stomach sank like a rock. She had to ask him that — again. The one thing he couldn't do.

"Maria, are you serious? You just told me he's still jealous because he thinks I replaced Berto as Juan's son. Now you want me to go to him and say, ''Hey, Matty, I know I told you I wanted your help, but just kidding! I don't need it, I can save Juan myself'? That'll do wonders for his insecurities."

The familiar fire in her eyes — the fire of her determination and love — burned brighter than Eliot had ever seen it. "Eliot, right now I don't give a _damn_ about his insecurities! I care about whether he gets out of today alive!" Her voice broke.

Was this why they were fighting so much? Was it about his safety? _Again?_ "Maria, have you talked to him about this?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I have. And he won't listen to me."

"Well he sure as hell ain't gonna listen to me." Eliot sighed heavily. "He outranks me now — I don't have that type of power over him anymore. I can't order him to sit it out like I did before the wedding."

God, just thinking about it hurt. Why would Maria ask him to do this again? He'd hated doing it to Matty then, and he didn't want to do it now.

He could tell Maria felt the same way.

"I — I know …" she said. "But maybe you could talk to Nate? It's your plan, not Matty's …"

"Maria, we've been working on this plan all week. We need him."

"No, you don't."

But they did. Matty was _honest_, and they needed someone like that on the inside. His role was vital.

"Maria, do you really think that after fighting against Moreau for most of his life, he's just going to sit by while the final battle plays out?" Eliot knew what the answer was — it was the same answer he'd have given in Matty's shoes. "Hell no. It won't matter who talks to him. He's a soldier. This is what he does. He fights for his country."

Maria stood up much more quickly than he would have expected for a woman in her condition. "I know exactly what his job is, Eliot, and exactly how dangerous it is! Do you know that he got himself shot trying to save Ribera?"

"He mentioned it. Said you were pretty upset."

But of course the situation wasn't as simple as Matty had led them to believe.

Maria put her whole head into rolling her eyes, starting to pace. "Oh, I'm sure he did. I'm sure he told you all about how his _harpy of a wife_ yelled at him for taking a bullet for someone who it's his job to protect, whether or not he deserves it. But did he tell you when it happened? Did he tell you Berto was two weeks old?"

Eliot's jaw dropped. No, Matty had definitely not mentioned that.

"Yes. Two. Weeks. Matty wasn't even supposed to be at that stupid political rally. But at the last minute they ordered" — she made finger quotes around _ordered_ — "him to be there, just so they could put on a show of solidarity in the military or some crap. Before he left, he told me that all he'd have to do was stand there, that the biggest danger was that he'd fall asleep and hit his head.

"So imagine you've just had a baby, and you're sitting at home, without your husband, watching this stupid political rally, and there's an assassination attempt. Right there. Live. Shots are fired, and you watch in horror as your husband pushes the president –– whom you despise — out of the way and gets _shot_ on national television."

Eliot actually tried _not_ to picture it. Maria had lost a brother to Moreau already. To watch her husband… What had Matty been thinking?

"Do you have any idea how scared I was?" she whispered. "I was a new mother. He wasn't even supposed to be back at work yet … Eliot, he could have died for Moreau and his god-damned puppet president. So yes, I was upset with him. I blew up at him when he woke up because it was the only thing I could do to keep from completely falling apart … I know he thinks I was such a bitch, but … I had a two-week-old baby, and I was trying to work, too. And then he got himself shot, and I had to take care of Matty on top of Berto. He couldn't use his arm, he was having nightmares because of the trauma … yes, I snapped. But it was all just too much."

She finally stopped pacing and lowered herself carefully into her chair, staring at her hands. When she spoke, she didn't sound like Maria anymore; her voice was that of a scared little girl. Eliot was reminded of Parker in the hotel room the other day.

"Sometimes I really hate this country. I hate Moreau, and I hate Papa for getting us involved, and I hate Matty for being a soldier. I hate my own husband for loving his country and doing what he loves. All I want to do at those times is pack up everything and leave. Matty, Berto, and me. Just leave and go somewhere safe, where my children don't have to be scared to go outside, and where I won't have to worry about my husband taking a bullet for the man we're trying to oust."

Eliot's heart ached. She'd always been determined, strong Maria — the fact that she was saying this was too much, that she of all people sometimes wished she could leave it all behind … did Matty understand that?

Eliot could understand Matty's point-of-view, because he was a soldier, too. Soldiers fought and braved bullets and risked their lives every day. But if _Eliot_ had a wife like Maria …

_"Hmm, insecurities, eh, El? Matty isn't you,"_ said the voice.

_No shit._ "Maria, he won't sit out today, no matter what either of us says. He's a soldier. It's what he does."

Maria shook her head, and a tiny smile graced her lips. "No, it's not what soldiers do, Eliot. It's what _he_ does. Jumping in front of a bullet for the enemy? When he was in surgery, Papa waited with me, and I asked him about it. Juan Flores — who's spent his entire life fighting for San Lorenzo –– said that he wasn't sure he would have taken a bullet for that man. He's a soldier. So are you. What would you have done? Would you have protected Ribera?"

Eliot's answer was automatic. "No. I probably would have tried to protect the civilians around me." Innocents over the guilty. Always.

"That's what Papa said, too. But not Matty. He … Eliot, he protected one of the men responsible for everything we're fighting against, and he did it because he hates it all. All the death. He didn't even think. He just did it. … And I've loved him even more every day since then. It was the most courageous act of selflessness I've ever seen."

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, the little girl was gone. "The highest-ranking military official in the country that wasn't on Moreau's payroll was almost killed trying to save Ribera. At first, the people thought he'd been turned. But then Ribera stood up and gave a medal to someone else. It was the dumbest thing he could have done, because all it did was tell the country that his enemy saved his life, and he couldn't even thank him for it. The people changed. Since then, they've loved it when Matty appears with me, but he always refuses to come on stage. They want to see him, but he always stays in the background. He might have told you that I'm the heir apparent to my father, and maybe that's technically true. But we're a team. We're the faces of the movement against Ribera and Moreau. Together."

Her eyes filled with tears now, and a few of them rolled down her cheeks. "We're partners, Matty and I. But we can't be partners if one of us is dead. I can't do this by myself, Eliot. Matty acts like _he_ can do it alone … and maybe he can. Hell, maybe that's what he wants. But we're partners, and we always have been, and I don't want to do it alone."

_Jesus, Matty __… what are you doing?_

As Maria looked down, caressing her belly and its precious cargo, Eliot saw her tears fall.

"Matty and I, we did this. We did it with Berto, and now again with this precious boy and girl. And it was selfish. We brought them into _our_ world. A world that lives in the shadow of Moreau."

She looked up at Eliot, her face streaked with tears. "Matty lost his father when he was eleven, Eliot. _Eleven._ We took him in after his mother died a few months later. He was so … different. He loved his father more than anything. He _worshipped_ his father. He'd always been so happy and outgoing, but after they died … he closed up. He didn't laugh, he didn't cry, he just … went through the motions. Finally Papa sat him down to talk about it." She smiled slightly through her tears. "I was a kid, and I was nosy, so I listened at the door." The smile faded, and she started to really cry now. "Papa said, ''Matty, you should be proud of your father. He died for his country.' And I'll never forget what Matty said, or the complete despair in his voice when he said it. 'I know … But why did he love his country more than he loved me?'"

Eliot's heart squeezed so tight he thought it might pop. Matty had only ever talked about being proud of his father. But Eliot should have known that he was just hiding the pain.

"And now Matty's a father," Maria continued, tears falling freely as she stroked her belly again. "These little ones … if something happens, they'll never know him. But our little Berto –" Her voice gave out, and it took her a moment to start speaking again. "Berto loves Matty more than anything. He worships Matty. And I've never seen Matty's eyes sparkle more than when he looks at Berto."

She put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. Eliot wanted nothing more than to reach out and hug her, but just as the thought crossed his mind, she let her hand fall to her lap and opened her eyes again.

Eliot had never seen such desperation in those eyes. "Eliot, if something happens today, how am I supposed to tell Berto that his papa isn't coming home?"

The words sliced Eliot's heart like a knife, and he could barely breathe.

"Please, Eliot. Don't let my children — don't let _Berto_ — lose their father. Don't let Moreau take something else from me. From my children. Please. Can you talk to him?"

Maria had done it again. She did it eight years ago, with Eliot and Pete, and she'd just done it today — convinced Eliot to tell Matty to sit it out.

"I'll do what I can," Eliot said. "I'll talk to him."

She threw her arms around him. "Thank you." When she pulled away, the fire in her eyes burned bright again.

_"Good luck," _said the voice. _"You'll need it."_

_Yes, I will __… oh boy, Spencer, what have you promised?_

.

.

.

Maria opened the door to leave the room — and ran right into Parker.

The thief stood as she had before she'd left the room: arms crossed, eyes narrowed — not unlike the dangerous Parker who had pointed the gun at Eliot, Nate, and Hardison in that warehouse three years ago as she talked about her "special angry place."

The outer room, covered in election posters for Juan and Vittori, was still mostly empty, though a few campaign workers had filed in early. Hardison was hard at work on his laptop again, and Nate was next to him looking at some sort of papers. They both looked up as the door opened.

"So?" said Parker. "Did you apologize?"

Sophie came up behind Parker and dragged her away from the door, allowing Maria and Eliot to exit the room. "Parker, their conversation was private, I don't think —"

"Did you apologize?" Parker asked again, ignoring Sophie.

"Parker …" Eliot growled in warning.

"Yes, I did, Parker," said Maria in a firm but patient tone that Eliot imagined was her Mom Voice. "I said some terrible things to him the other day, and I apologized for them. I didn't mean to hurt him."

Parker's unblinking stare was unsettling. "You made him boy-cry."

Eliot sputtered. "What? Parker, I wasn't —"

"I made him what?" The smirk on Maria's face spread to Sophie, then to Nate and even Hardison, who'd stopped typing to watch the show.

"Boy-cry." Parker explained to Maria as she had to Eliot. "Boys cry differently than girls, so when boys cry —"

"Oh, I know what it is, sweetie, trust me. I've seen it enough in my lifetime." Maria's smirk was a full-blown grin now. "I've just never heard it called that before, but it's perfect." She turned to Eliot and pasted on a serious face. "Eliot, I am so very sorry that I made you boy-cry."

Everyone burst into laughter. Eliot stalked away as Parker asked, "So … can your babies see me?"

Eliot searched the room for the one person he hadn't seen yet. Matty was standing guard near the door that led from the campaign headquarters to the rest of Parliament. He was tense — arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes searching — but it was clear he'd seen Maria and Parker's exchange.

Having no interest in the conversation now taking place between Maria, Parker, and Sophie — "No, sweetie, I promise, they can't see you." "How do you know? They have eyes, don't they?" — Eliot walked toward Matty and assumed the same position right next to him. They both stared straight ahead, back into the room.

After about a minute, Matty said, "You guys were in there for a while."

An outsider might have considered this an attempt at small talk, or even an effort to block out Parker's increasingly disturbing questions about pregnancy — "Wait, so they're swimming in liquid? Like aliens?" — but Eliot had known Matty Ramirez for long enough to recognize it for what it was: fishing.

Eliot responded in a tone that matched Matty's: casual, but guarded. "Yeah, she was apologizing."

Another pause. "Funny thing about the words 'I'm sorry' –– they only take about three seconds to say."

Eliot didn't take his eyes off the room. "Well, you know how Maria can talk. Why use two words when you can use twenty?"

"Yeah, she always has liked talking to you." Matty's voice had an edge in it this time.

Eliot looked over at Maria, who was now drawing a picture for Parker. _Dammit, I can__'t do this, Maria. Not again._ Matty hated him — he'd never listen.

_"Eliot, if something happens today, how am I supposed to tell Berto that his papa isn't coming home?"_

Berto — that little boy hadn't been able to say good night to his father yesterday. Had he been able to say good morning today? If something happened ...

"Listen, Matty. I've been thinking, and talking to Nate, and maybe after you guys vote you could go home with Maria. I mean, what if she goes into labor? We've got things covered here. I don't think we need –"

If Matty hadn't been tense before, he certainly was now. As he took a single, deep breath, Eliot felt the tension in Matty's body rise as if a spring was being coiled to its max. "You said it had to be me, El."

"I know I did, but maybe just for today —"

The spring released. "You've got to be kidding me!" Matty finally turned to look at Eliot. "Dammit! That's why I didn't want to leave you two alone! We've had this conversation already. I've made my career out of fighting Damien Moreau, and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit out today just because it's dangerous."

There it was. Exactly what Eliot had expected. But "just because it's dangerous"? Matty was a father now, how could he ––

"This is my _job_, El. She's known this from the beginning. I was doing this before we were even together. This is what I do. I even gave her an out, when I first proposed, remember that?"

Eliot did remember that — even deep in the throes of his profession of love, closely followed by his marriage proposal, Matty had been utterly selfless.

"I told her she should find someone else, someone who could promise he'd always be with her. But she said no. She said she wanted _me_, and she didn't care if we had a day or a week or a century." Matty's voice was rising in volume, and the team — and Maria — had noticed. "Well guess what? This is me. This is what I do. Did I try to keep her from gallivanting all over San Lorenzo promoting Vittori?"

The pain in his eyes was back, but he seemed to push it away as he rounded on Eliot.

"And you know what, Eliot? You have a lot of balls coming here, after being gone for years, and telling me that I need to sit this out. You have no idea the things I've sacrificed for my country. I was here before you arrived, I was here after you left, and I'll still be here when you up and leave for another eight years, so for you to try to tell me to –"

"That's enough." Maria had come up behind Matty; he whirled to face her. "Don't get angry with him. You're right, I asked him to talk with you. So if you're going to get mad at anyone, Mateo Ramirez, it had better be me. We'll talk about this later."

The spring recoiled, as tense as ever. But when he spoke, Matty's voice was calm and cool, as before. In fact, it was icy. "Yes. We. Will."

He and Maria stared coldly at each other for what felt like an eternity, and Eliot's heart ached again. Matty and Maria were supposed to be the ones that made it, that got the love and the marriage and the family.

This was part of the collateral damage caused by Moreau. Everything in San Lorenzo was poisoned by his presence.

"Hey, what's going on?" Parker skipped over and threw her arm around Maria. Whatever they'd discussed seemed to have allayed Parker's fears of the "creepiness" of pregnancy. "Let's go! We're gonna steal a country!"

Parker's appearance, as always, seemed to diffuse the situation.

Maria, still looking at Matty, shook her head. "Not us," she said with a small smile. "We're going to win it back." She grabbed her husband's hand in hers.

That did it. Just as Matty had agreed to let the team steal the country — evoking a reaction of surprised happiness from Maria — here Maria was, vowing to win it back. The anger on Matty's face evaporated in an instant, and he took Maria's face in his hands and kissed her. Parker beamed as she backed away, and everyone else in the room stopped to watch.

This kiss was different from the one they'd shared the previous night. It wasn't chaste. As Maria wrapped her arms around Matty, Eliot could see a hint of the passion that used to define them. It wasn't as passionate as it could have been –– Moreau's shadow was far-reaching, indeed — but it took a moment for Eliot to understand why it was passionate at all today, right now.

The realization almost split his heart in two: he wasn't the only one who understood that today would mark the last day of San Lorenzo's war with Moreau. They all knew what was at stake.

When they pulled apart, Maria's smile finally bore a small resemblance to the ones she used to wear, to the one she'd worn at her wedding. "Let's go vote."

Matty smiled back. "After you, Mrs. Ramirez."

The dangerous look on Maria's face — eerily reminiscent of her father — made even Eliot shudder, but Matty just grinned and said, "Oh. I'm so sorry, _Ms. Flores_."

"And don't you forget it." Maria narrowed her eyes playfully as she turned to leave.

Matty winked at the rest of the team and said, "See you in a bit." But his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Man," Hardison said as he turned back to his typing. "Y'all have got some crazy romantic water here in San Lorenzo."

"So it would seem," Sophie murmured.

"Hmm … yes," said Nate. "Though maybe there's a bit more than just romance in there, as well. Courtesy of our friend Moreau."

So it was obvious to them, too. Something really was wrong with Matty and Maria.

Before today was over, Moreau was going to regret ever coming to San Lorenzo.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Da-da-dum.

Da-da-dum.

Matty drummed his fingers on the back room conference table at campaign headquarters where he was seated, watching the exit polls and new reports up on Hardison's big screen. Hardison, sitting across from him, was typing up a storm.

Da-da-dum.

Eliot had given up sitting hours ago. He couldn't be still for that long. How could it not even be one in the afternoon yet? They still had hours until the polls closed.

While Eliot had prepared for a lot of things on Election Day — winning, losing, seeing Juan, _not_ seeing Juan, fighting Moreau, getting thrown in prison, dying — the one thing he was wholly unprepared for was the waiting. They needed to be ready to move at a moment's notice if something happened, but so far nothing had happened. It was driving him insane.

Da-da-dum.

Eliot was pacing back across the room for the millionth time when Parker popped up outside the window and climbed in, carrying Sparky/Gigabyte/Emma in her arms and placing her on the floor. The puppy had been following Parker around all day like — well, like a little lost puppy.

"Wow! People are really excited out there! Lines of people waiting to vote. I've never voted before. Is it hard?"

She flopped down next to Matty, and the puppy jumped into her lap.

Da-da-dum.

"Well?" she asked Matty directly as she placed Sparky/Gigabyte/Emma in front of him on the table. "Is it hard?"

Da-da-dum.

"Huh?" Matty looked as if he'd just noticed Parker next to him. "Voting? No, not hard. Just check a box." He pushed the puppy away back toward Parker.

"Put her on the floor, Parker," Eliot growled.

"Aw, but she likes seeing everything! Fine …"

Da-da-dum.

Da-da-dum.

"So, I've been thinking," Parker began.

_Never a good sign._

Da-da-dum.

"General Flores — what do you guys call him?"

Da-da-dum.

"General," Eliot said.

Da-da-dum.

The table started to jiggle; Matty was shaking his leg now.

"No, Matty called him something else."

Da-da-dum.

"Juan. It's his name. Juan Flores." Matty didn't take his eyes off the big screen, and his tone was not welcoming of further questions.

But this was Parker. "Yeah, so that's what I don't get. If his name is Juan, then how come all his posters say Lawrence Flores on them?"

Da-da-dum.

"Lawrence is his first name, but he hates it. Juan is his middle name, and that's what everyone calls him."

"Then how come they put Lawrence on the posters?"

Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. The table started to jiggle at a slightly higher frequency.

"Because that's his legal name, even if he doesn't go by it."

"Hmm." Parker thought about this. "So his name is Lawrence …" Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. "…but he goes by Juan." Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. "That's weird," she finally declared.

Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum. The table jiggled even faster.

"Are you serious?" Matty had finally turned to look at her. "What's your name again?"

Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum.

"Parker."

Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum.

"Parker what?"

Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum.

"Just Parker."

"Exactly." Matty turned back to look at the screens.

Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum.

"Exactly what?"

"Oh for the love of everything holy, all of you stop!" Hardison exploded. The typing — and the drumming — stopped.

Eliot, Matty, and Parker stared at him.

"What?" Parker asked.

"You're all driving me nuts! You, with the pacing," — he pointed at Eliot — "and you with the tapping." He pointed at Matty. "You're jiggling the whole damned table!" The table suddenly stopped moving. "And you two, arguing about names and crap like you're in a freaking Abbot and Costello routine! Some of us have _actual_ work to do. I know y'all can't do anything until the polls close, and I'm sorry you're bored, but I can't work with you all in here like this! So just sit still and be quiet!"

No one breathed as he resumed typing again. For a moment, except for the sound of his keystrokes, there was complete silence.

Then Parker leaned over to Matty and _sniffed_ him. "Mmm," she purred. "I love the smell of San Lorenzo."

"That's it. I need some air." Eliot had never seen Matty leave a room so quickly.

Eliot followed Matty out just as Parker said, "Hardison, you should get one of those nice-smelling uniforms Matty always wears…"

In the outer room, Nate was ordering people around while Sophie spoke with Vittori. Eliot didn't particularly feel like talking with either of them, so he went out into the hallway, where he found Matty on the phone, his back to Eliot.

"Hey, honey … No, we're still waiting. We can't do anything until the polls close …" He chuckled at something Maria said. "Yep, you know me, I hate waiting … So, how are feeling? Any big contractions? …" He frowned. "Any little contractions? …" His frown deepened. "No contractions at all, huh? …" His voice lowered dangerously. "Don't lie to me, Maria … I know you've — Listen, I — … Dammit, Maria!"

Eliot suddenly felt uncomfortable, listening in on what Matty assumed was a private conversation. But he couldn't pull himself away.

Matty sighed heavily. "Fine … All right … All _right_ … I love y —" He pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it. "_Dammit!_"

He hit the wall with his closed fist and buried his face in his empty hand as he took several deep, shaky breaths.

Eliot took a few shaky breaths of his own. He shouldn't have seen that — no, it shouldn't have _happened_. He was filled with a surge of hatred for Moreau. He needed to leave before —

Suddenly Matty spun around. His face was contorted in pain, his eyes red and shining. When he saw Eliot, though, he wiped everything off of his face except for anger.

"What the hell? Eavesdropping? Jesus, between you, and Parker's constant questions, and Nate and Sophie just _knowing_ things, and Hardison's computer, and Moreau —" He waved his hand in the direction of several cameras in the hallway. "— and my _wife_ …" His voice broke as he looked at the phone in his hand. "I can't have a single god-damned moment to myself!"

_Just leave, Spencer. He doesn't want to talk to you._ "I just … wanted to make sure everything was okay …" _What are you doing?!_

"It's fine, all right? I don't need anyone checking up on me." Matty leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, forehead creased deeply.

Eliot knew he should leave — even if Matty hadn't made it clear that he wanted to be alone. Considering their difficult past, their argument the night before, and the almost-argument this morning, Eliot was certainly the last person Matty wanted to see right now. But he needed to say something.

"She loves you, Matty."

_That's it, Spencer. Throw gasoline on the fire, why don't you? Just leave!_

Surprisingly, Matty didn't flare up. With his eyes still closed, he asked, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Does she?"

Matty's words sliced through Eliot's heart, and he cursed Moreau again as he forced himself to answer a question that should never, ever have even been asked. "Absolutely. I can see it when she looks at you. And I could tell when we spoke this morning."

Matty opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as he chuckled mirthlessly. "Right — when _you_ spoke with her this morning. Why would she talk to me now that you're back?"

Eliot had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He and Matty had _a lot_ of unresolved issues. But at least resentment and passive aggressive comments put them back on familiar territory.

"You know what I need?" Matty interrupted Eliot's thoughts. "Some of that booze Nate always seems to have. You know where he got it?"

A snort escaped from Eliot before he could stop it. "We've stopped asking."

Matty's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "So … this isn't just because of Moreau, then?" His laugh was bitter and acidic. "You know you're in deep shit when you need a band of thieves led by a drunk to save your country. I can't believe you let him lead your missions."

"Jobs," Eliot snapped. The bastard was doing it again, and Eliot really couldn't stand his sanctimony.

Matty raised his hands in mock-defense, his voice dripping with derision. "Okay, jeez. So sorry I got the criminal jargon wrong."

"Nate's got a bad story."

Matty snorted. "Join the club. You don't see me drowning myself in booze."

Eliot could scarcely believe that he was actually coming to the defense of Nate's alcoholism, but Matty was taking the moral high ground again. And — for maybe the first time in his life — he had absolutely zero right to be there.

"He lost his son, all right?" The harsh defensiveness of Eliot's own words surprised him.

And he regretted them immediately. Matty reacted as if he'd been slapped — eyes widened in shock, mouth open in disbelief. Then his eyes filled with a pain unlike any Eliot had ever seen there. It wasn't until he closed them and turned away that it finally occurred to Eliot why.

Matty was a father, too.

_Shit._ Why had he said that? Matty didn't need this. Not today. He needed to focus …

"Matty, I —"

"How?" Matty's voice was sandpaper. He'd opened his eyes, but he was leaning against the wall as he stared at a spot on the floor.

_I'm sorry, Matty._ "Cancer."

Matty winced. "When … ?"

"Couple years before we started working together … He used to chase all of us for an insurance company. Worked for the damned people for years, but when he wanted them to pay for his son's treatment … they told him no."

Eliot knew he shouldn't be telling Matty any of this, but Matty needed to understand. He needed to understand _Nate_.

"Jesus …" Matty breathed.

"So he drank to deal with it," Eliot continued. "And it lost him his marriage, his job … he hit rock bottom."

"How'd he come back from it?"

"Somebody hired all of us to do a job, and —"

"The rest is history." Matty quietly chuckled as he said it, but he still didn't take his eyes off that spot on the floor.

He paused for a moment, and Eliot knew what he was thinking.

_Don't do the math, Matty …_

"How —" Matty's voice gave out, and he tried again. "How old was he?"

_Dammit._ "Seven or eight."

Matty squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head against the wall. His face, contorted with the pain of a father imagining losing a child, was turned skyward, as if in prayer. As Eliot realized that might have been exactly what Matty was doing, he felt the urge to leave, to let Matty have this alone. But just as he decided to go, Matty finally met Eliot's gaze.

His eyes were shining, like before, and his jaw was tight. But when he spoke, his voice didn't shake at all.

"And now he helps people who have nowhere else to turn. He helps people like …"

_Exactly._

They stood in silence for a moment. Eliot felt a little guilty — that was Nate's secret to tell, not his. But if Matty — honest even by Nate's standards — seemed to finally understand why the team did what they did, then maybe it was worth it.

Matty broke the silence first. "What was his name?"

_Interesting._ That was the first thing Nate had asked about Matty's son. "Sam."

"Sam," he whispered.

When Matty turned to Eliot again, his eyes were filled with doubt.

"Can we be honest for a second?" _Jesus, Matty, was this not honest enough for you?_ "How do you think today's gonna end?"

Eliot took a long, deep breath and released it as a slow, heavy sigh. He'd spent all week trying not to think about that. "Honestly? I don't know."

"Me either." Matty let out, if possible, an even heavier sigh. "But hope for the best …"

"… prepare for the worst," Eliot finished. It was something they'd all used to say before missions. _Hope for the best, prepare for the worst._ Now that he thought about it, though, the saying was awfully dark; it really should have been the other way around — _Prepare for the worst, hope for the best._ More hopeful that way. But if anyone had a right to be pessimistic about Moreau, it was the San Lorenzan army.

"El," Matty said. He was looking at the floor again, and his voice sounded odd. "I need you do something for me. If I don't — if something happens to me today … I need you — I need you to get Maria and the kids out of the country."

The words crashed into Eliot like a freight train. Matty had never asked anything like this of him before.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd started this day with the realization that he might not see the end of it.

"Maria won't leave without you, Matty —"

"No shit, Spencer," Matty snapped, almost automatically.

They both paused. That was something else Matty had used to say all the time, and it sounded as though he'd said it without thinking. It was refreshingly familiar, and Eliot almost smiled.

"That's why I'm asking you," Matty continued. "You're right, she won't leave. But if the shit hits the fan today, she has to, and you're the only one who might be able to actually convince her. I don't care how you do it, or what you have to tell her. Lie to her, tell her I'm okay, whatever. Just get. Them. Out."

_Tell Maria that you're safe when you're not?_ Eliot couldn't imagine lying to her like that. But there was one thing Matty was forgetting.

"You're assuming that I'm not gonna be locked up in the Tombs with you."

Matty rolled his eyes. "Please. You and I both know today isn't going to end with us in prison. It's just us. We can drop the act." He paused, then continued quietly. "Your team … they don't know what's really at stake, do they?"

"Nate does."

"Does he?"

Eliot remembered his words to Nate after Sophie's press conference.

_"He will _kill_ us. But first, he'll — he'll _hurt_ them, Nate, and make you and me watch. Trust me when I tell you that you don't understand what's at risk here."_

_"Do you honestly think I don't know what Moreau will do? I saw first-hand what he was prepared to do when we almost had him in D.C. — and what you had to do to stop it."_

Eliot forced the sights and sounds of the warehouse from his mind. "Yes. He does."

"And the others?"

Eliot wasn't completely sure about that. They had to know this job was more dangerous than others. "They're not stupid. They know. Moreau almost let Hardison drown in a pool." _No, _I _almost let Hardison drown in a pool._ "They just — they're not used to dealing with that type of threat. So they're doing their best to ignore it."

"Like Maria." Matty was silent for a moment. "Promise me, El, that you'll —"

"Again, Matty, you're assuming that I'm not gonna be dead right next to you."

There it was. Finally. It was a relief, almost, to say it out loud. He'd been trying to hide it from the team, so as not to scare them. But Eliot was a soldier, and soldiers didn't do that. Soldiers talked about dying all the time; they joked about it, even, because they had to. It was the only way to cope. And it was a comfort to share the burden with another soldier.

But Matty snorted again. "No you won't. Not you. We both know that, too."

_Dammit, Matty, when are you going to believe you're one of the best soldiers I've ever seen?_

_"Maybe when you tell him that?"_ said the voice in his head.

Eliot shook the voice away and said, "Matty, you're —"

"El, he hates you. _You._ He doesn't hate anyone, not even Juan, as much as he hates you. You made a fool of him years ago, and your team did it again last week. _Your_ team. He's not going to let that slide. And now you're threatening him again. He hates you, and we know what he does to people he hates — he makes them suffer. No — he's going to save you 'til last, just so he can enjoy it."

Matty paused for a moment and looked away. Eliot could tell it was a relief for Matty to talk about it out loud, too. And hearing _those_ words aloud, finally, was satisfying to Eliot — even more satisfying than it was painful. The pain was always there, but sharing it with someone wasn't something he'd ever been able to do.

But Matty, staring again at the vacant spot on the floor, wasn't finished. "Me? I'm nobody. He'll probably have one of his goons do it. Just" — he made a _pop_ noise with his mouth as he pulled an imaginary trigger — "right in the back of the head." He made a noise that was halfway between a chuckle and a sob. "At least it'll be quick, right?" As his fearful smile faded, he frowned. "But you … he'll save you 'til last. And you'll have more time."

When he finally looked at Eliot, his eyes were pleading. "Please, El. Get them out. Make sure they're safe. Maria won't want to, but she needs to. For the kids. I can't let anything to happen to them. So _please_ … get them out?"

Eliot had never heard or seen Matty so desperate. His heart squeezed as he remembered the desperation in Maria's voice from earlier in the day. Why couldn't they, just this once, forget about the country and the greater good and a better future and just _be safe_?

"Matty," Eliot rasped. "You shouldn't be here today. You should be home, with them. With your family."

Eliot watched as Matty's face transitioned from desperation to surprise, then to shock, and finally to fury. "Fuck you, Spencer," he hissed, his voice drenched in venom.

Eliot flinched, remembering the last time Matty had said that phrase, nearly drowning in hatred and anguish. Then, as now, Matty's eyes had flashed with rage, but also something else: pain. That had been eight years ago, right after —

"You don't get to tell me how to live my life," Matty snarled. "Or how to be a husband and father."

"Matty, your father died when you were eleven! Do you want your kids to grow up without knowing theirs at all?"

Matty's entire body tensed, and for a second Eliot thought the man was going to take a swing at him. But instead, Matty took a step forward so that their noses were practically touching. He was dangerously calm, and his tone was icy.

"Don't you dare bring my father into this. He died for his country, and he did it so that I could grow up and have a family and live in a place where I wouldn't have to be afraid. I'm proud of that. And I want to do the same thing for my kids. I will not let them grow up in the same San Lorenzo I did. If I die, then so be it. But my father didn't run, and I won't either. I want him to be proud of me."

"Well your kids'll be real proud of you, Matty. The twins won't even know what you look like! But what about Berto, huh? You think he'd rather you die for your country than live for him?"

The torment that flashed for a moment in Matty's eyes sliced through Eliot's own heart. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, and the rage was back. Although Matty's voice rose a notch in volume, it was the sheer loathing that hit Eliot like a slap in the face.

"No. You are _not_ doing this again. This is _my_ country. This is _my_ military. You don't get to bench me anymore. I outrank you now."

The words echoed in Eliot's ears. _I don't want to bench you Matty. I never did. But you have a family now._ "I never outranked you. We were both commanders."

"Bullshit." Matty spat every word as if it were a nasty taste. "You were always his favorite. He gave you so many damned missions, and you benched me so that you and Pete could go off and save the day —"

Eliot nearly doubled over as the pain of hearing that name seared across his heart.

_Pete._

He hadn't spoken it aloud — or heard it spoken — in eight years. His eyes filled with tears that wouldn't fall. They never did.

Matty jaw dropped for a second, but then the acidic laugh came back. "You can't even hear his name, can you? After everything that happened? After everything he did for you? He —"

"Shut up!" Eliot snarled.

Matty shook his head, face contorted in disgust. "Cobarde." _Coward._

The word stung more than it would have in English — Matty Ramirez only ever used Spanish for swearing.

When Matty spoke again, his voice was thick. "You know what? Fuck it. All I wanted was for them to be safe. I should have known better than to ask you, but I thought that maybe you'd do it anyway, for Maria. For the kids. But apparently since it's _me_ asking …"

Was that what he thought? That Eliot was refusing? He was trying to keep Matty's_ whole_ family safe, not just Maria and the kids.

"Matty, I'll —"

They both started at the sound of Matty's phone ringing.

"Maria …" Matty whispered, staring at it. He took a deep breath, wiped everything from his face, and answered. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded almost normal. "Maria? Is everything — ?" He let out a silent, but visible, sigh of relief. When he spoke, his voice was thick again. "_Te amo, mi vida._ More than anything." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "… I know. Don't worry so much, okay? I am damned good at my job. I'll be fine." He exchanged a look with Eliot.

No more honesty. Back to hiding.

"Just keep me posted, okay? Nate has plans in case you go into labor …" Matty chuckled. "Yep, R through Z, that's what he said. …" Whatever Maria had said next made him wince, and his voice grew hoarse. "Oh, well, tell him I miss him, too. …" His eyes widened, and his mouth curled into a slight smile. "He does? … Sure, put him on."

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked Eliot in the eyes. His anger was gone. And so was Eliot's.

"Listen, El, I —"

"I'll do it, Matty. I promise. If something happens to you, I'll get them out, even if it's the last thing I do. Just ... try to refrain from taking any bullets for the bad guys today, all right?"

Matty gave the tiniest of smirks. Then he whispered, "Thank you."

"I need you to do something for me, though."

Matty's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

Before Eliot could answer, Matty's face lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. He looked happier than Eliot had ever seen him, with the possible — maybe — exception of his wedding day.

"_¡Hola, mijo!_" Matty said animatedly. It was the same voice he'd used with Parker that morning, but filled with ten times the excitement and a heavy dose of unconditional, fatherly love. "How's it going?"

Eliot nodded and turned to leave so that Matty could speak alone with his son, but Matty touched Eliot's arm and shook his head. "Hey, Berto, can you do something for me? I want to hear you count from one to ten in English, and then _de uno a diez en Español_."

Eliot must have looked puzzled, because Matty covered the mouthpiece again and said, "He's three. It takes him a while. What do you need?"

No sarcasm, no derision. Not this time.

Honesty.

"Just … if something happens to me, if you can ... get the team out." Eliot's voice shook as he spoke. It was harder to say aloud than he'd thought. "They won't want to leave, especially Nate, but I can't let Moreau — … Please?"

Their eyes met, and all the pain and hatred and resentment were gone. In that moment, they understood each other: Matty had asked Eliot to protect his family, and Eliot had asked Matty to protect his.

Matty seemed to understand what that meant, for Eliot to not only ask for help, but to ask it of _him_, and for these people. He nodded slowly and whispered, "Promise."

Then his face lit up, and he spoke in that voice again. "Great job, _mijo_! I'm so proud of you!"

Eliot couldn't help but smile. Matty deserved this, to have this moment with his son, before … whatever was going to happen.

But the smile faded as Eliot turned around. The Floreses had already lost so much in their fight for San Lorenzo. Matty would not become another casualty. Eliot didn't care if it pissed Matty off — he was not going to allow Moreau to steal someone else from Maria, or to take that little boy's father away.

_They_ were the thieves. They'd be the only ones stealing today.


	17. Chapter 17

_Thank you all for still reading! I know I took some time off, but know it's just because I'm trying to get these last chapters right. Thank you for all of your lovely, wonderful reviews. They make my day! And thank you to quirkapotamus, without whom this chapter (and most of the others) wouldn't be nearly as emotionally satisfying._

Chapter 17

"Eliot, Matty, you guys in position?" Nate asked.

Eliot glanced at Matty, who gave a thumbs-up. They were in a large supply closet just off the hallway that led to the Tombs. "Roger that."

"Parker?"

"Yep!" came the response. "When can we go?"

"As soon as the election is called for Vittori," said Nate. "Okay, how we doing?"

"It's a record turnout," Hardison answered. "Which is very, very good for us."

"There's not much time left at the polls." Sophie this time. "I've got everyone doing get-out-and-vote calls."

"Okay, Hardison," Nate said. "You go get on that other thing."

"Now?"

"Yeah, now," replied Nate.

"Yes! Now!" Eliot and Matty snapped at the same time. They'd been waiting much less than patiently for twenty minutes now; they couldn't start without him.

"Okay, jeez, calm down. I'm coming. I still don't get why I have to go down to the Tombs with you guys anyway. Not like I'll be helping or anything."

"Once the election is called, our campaign headquarters is no longer safe," Nate explained for what had to be the fiftieth time. "They're going to come down hard, and we need to make ourselves scarce. Down in the Tombs with Eliot, Matty, and Parker is the safest place for you to be, Hardison. Now, listen, Soph, if things get ugly —"

Suddenly Nate went silent.

"Nate?" Eliot exchanged a worried look with Matty. "Nate? Sophie, are you there? Dammit!"

"Relax, man," said Hardison. "They probably just took their comms out for a private chat."

_That's the problem._

This wasn't a normal job. If someone went off comms, Eliot wouldn't know if anything had happened to them, or where they were in case he had to get them out …

"Damn, this place is a freaking maze!" Hardison exclaimed. "I have no idea where I'm going."

Matty raised his eyebrows. "You've been here for a week. How do you not know where to go?"

"Uh, maybe because I was busy monitoring poll numbers, writing campaign speeches, creating posters and attack ads, and setting up interviews about dog-fighting in a herculean effort to help your clueless candidate win? I've hardly slept since I got here, so I could really do without the sass."

"I agree," Maria's voice sounded over the comms. "Entirely too much sass, Ramirez."

Matty's head snapped like a rubber band to fix Eliot with a look of complete shock. Eliot rubbed his face in frustration. Maria was supposed to be back at the safe house, not eavesdropping on the comms. Why couldn't people just go along with the original plan?

"Maria?" Matty barely kept the rising panic from his voice. "You're not supposed to be —"

"Relax, Matty. I'm at the house. Not in any danger or anything."

Matty frowned. "The house? Then how are you talking to us?"

"When Sophie gave me the earbud, I was skeptical, too, but these things have amazing range!"

"Damn … right …" panted Hardison.

"Hardison, are you climbing stairs?" Eliot growled. "The Tombs are in the basement!"

"Yeah, well … I went to the basement …" the hacker puffed. "But I hit a … dead end … only way to go … was up …"

"Dammit, Hardison! Pull up the map on your phone!"

"What do you … think I'm doing now? … Chill out, I'm coming!"

"Maria," Matty was saying. "I think that maybe you should —"

Suddenly Nate's voice was back. "Okay, guys, how are we doing?"

"Nate!" Eliot snapped. "Did you and Sophie go off comms?"

"We needed to —"

Eliot didn't want to hear excuses. "That's it. New rule: no one goes off comms again. I need to know where everyone is at all times." _How else can I keep you all alive?_

"Ooh, are we making up new rules now?" said Parker. "I wanna go!"

"No one goes off comms?" asked Hardison. "Did Eliot Spencer just say that? You go off comms all the time!"

"It's true," Sophie added. "You do seem to be unreachable at the most inopportune times, Eliot."

Eliot rolled his eyes and prepared a snarky retort, but Nate stepped in. "Settle down, guys. He's right. No more going off comms. Okay?"

"Okay," came the mumbled responses.

_At least that takes care of one issue …_

"Hey, Sophie?" Matty's voice was strained. "Is there a reason you gave my wife an earbud?"

"Mateo Ramirez, _your wife_ can hear you right now."

"Of course there's a reason, darling," Sophie cooed. Eliot rubbed his face again — she was using her con voice. _Wonderful._ "It's in case she goes into labor. Surely you want to be kept in the loop about that?"

Eliot wasn't sure how to respond to Matty's disbelieving and slightly panicked look. _Yes, that's her excuse, and no, there's probably no way out of it._

But when Matty spoke, his voice matched Sophie's in its almost chipper calmness.

"Of course I want to be kept up to date, Sophie, but maybe Maria could stay off comms until she has to tell me something."

In spite of his growing concern at Sophie's antics, Eliot almost smiled to himself. _Who's the con man now, Matty?_

"Why would I want to do that?" asked Maria. "I'd like to hear how things are going, babe." Her sickly sweet tone mirrored both Matty's and Sophie's.

Eliot rolled his eyes. Today was a big day for conning people you cared about, apparently.

But his stomach dropped to the floor at the look on Matty's face.

Eliot had known Matty Ramirez for years, been with him through fire fights and injuries and deaths and his _wedding_, and through all of that, the man had never once looked afraid. He'd always put on a brave face and marched on, like a good soldier, never letting emotions get in the way of doing what needed to be done. But now … now his face was filled with a fear that sent shivers down Eliot's spine. Because today, when Eliot was already feeling less than confident himself, he looked to one of the best soldiers he'd ever known, and all he saw was abject terror.

But tellingly, Matty's fear wasn't for himself; his chilling speech earlier, describing his own unceremonious execution, had shown his calm, if nervous, resignation that he would not see the end of today. He'd never planned to — hence his heart-wrenching reaction to Maria hanging up and his elation at being able to speak with his son.

No, Matty's fear was for his family, and it went beyond his desperation to keep them safe. Maria _was_ safe — at least physically. But this earbud fiasco threw a wrench in the plan. Matty might have resigned himself to his own death, and even to the fact that he would never see his wife or children again, but he had not prepared for the scenario in which his wife would find herself listening to his last seconds, hearing the exact moment that her husband was murdered.

And then Eliot realized … his own fear was the same as Matty's. It wasn't a fear of dying; he'd woken up resigned to that, like Matty. But being unable to protect the team … that was his fear. And protection meant more than just the physical.

Physical protection wasn't guaranteed, but luckily for Eliot and Matty both, their current concern could be easily solved.

Eliot took out his earbud and motioned for Matty to do the same.

"Fine," Matty grumbled, and convincingly, to his wife before taking out his own earbud. Then he spoke to Eliot in a stage whisper. "El, you _just_ told them not to —"

"Listen," Eliot said. They didn't have long to talk before someone noticed they'd disappeared. "If something happens, and you know you won't —"

Suddenly the door to the closet opened and Hardison stomped in. "Finally! I thought I'd —" He stopped just inside the door, apparently realizing that Eliot and Matty were having a private, off-comm conversation. "Nope, just kidding. Wrong closet." He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, taking out his own earbud and crossing his arms, staring the two men down with a glare that showed he did _not_ approve of the situation.

But Eliot didn't give a damn what Hardison thought. To keep up the ruse, he put his earbud back in just long enough to say, "Dammit, Hardison!" before taking it out and continuing to talk to Matty.

"If something happens and you can't get out, take out your comm and crush it under your foot. If you don't have time for that, then throw it as far away as you can, but destroying it is the best thing you can do, because they're also trackers. There aren't many people who can hack Hardison's stuff" — both men glanced briefly at the hacker, who was listening with a look of growing horror — "but Moreau has Manticore, so I don't want to take any chances. Got it?"

The tension seemed to ooze from Matty's body as he slowly released a breath. "Got it." He gave a short nod, and the fear on his face melted away, leaving only the brave soldier Eliot knew so well.

As for Eliot, his stomach returned to its normal position and his own heart felt just a bit lighter. He put on his own brave face and turned to Hardison, who was advancing on them.

"Are you guys serious?" the hacker whispered. "You just said no taking out the earbuds, Eliot, and now you're talking about —"

"Just in case, Hardison," said Matty. "Always have a back-up plan."

"Well it's a pretty crappy back-up plan, if you ask me," Hardison uncharacteristically snapped. He was looking at Eliot, betrayal in his eyes. "In what universe is you crushing your earbud a good idea?"

Eliot's stomach sank at the hacker's expression — he really didn't get it, did he? "Hardison, listen. If something happens to either Matty or me, I don't want you to hear …"

While Eliot was speaking, Hardison shook his head — slowly at first, as if in denial, but the frequency of his head-shaking rose in direct proportion to the growing fear on his face. The painful stab in Eliot's heart with every head shake kept him from finishing his sentence.

"No," the hacker said, shaking his head furiously now. "No. You don't throw your earbud out. It's got GPS, and I can figure out where you are —"

Eliot almost lied then, to protect his best friend from imagining his worst fears. But the voice in his head told him, _"He loves you, El. Tell him the truth."_

"Hardison." Eliot was surprised by how steady he kept his voice as he grabbed his friend by the upper arms and looked him in the eyes. "If something happens to Matty or me … there won't be anything left worth finding."

_"I said the _truth_, El," _said the voice. _"What was that you were thinking earlier about conning people you care about?"_

_Shut up!_ That was enough truth; Eliot wasn't going to allow anyone to get hurt trying to save him.

He forced himself to hold Hardison's gaze as the hacker's eyes filled with tears. Hardison shook his head again and looked at Eliot with such panic and fear that Eliot couldn't help but remember the same panic and fear that had looked back at him from Pete's eyes … in a San Lorenzan warehouse eight years ago.

_No, not that. Not today._ With immense effort, Eliot pushed the memory away and forced himself to stay in the moment. Hardison needed him now.

He took a deep breath and said softly, "Hardison, I need you to focus, okay? Moreau is dangerous, and we all need to be on top of our game today. I can't have you losing it right now. Nothing has changed."

He watched Hardison's jaw tighten as the hacker cleared his throat to speak. "Just — just promise me you ain't gonna do anything stupid. Like go after Moreau alone."

Eliot smirked the lump out of his own throat and said, "Like I have the luxury of doing anything stupid today. I got a job to do — keeping you guys safe. This is just in case. Worst-case scenario. Gotta plan for everything, right?"

Hardison gave a small smirk of his own in response as he nodded. "Right. Plan double-Z."

"Quadruple-Z," Eliot corrected as he held up a hand. "Now, high-five. For morale."

Hardison took a slow, deep breath, and Eliot could see him pushing the fear and panic away. _Like Pete._ Then Hardison rolled his eyes and, as he gave Eliot a high-five, said, "When this is over, we are gonna have a strong talk about this going off comms thing. A _strong_ talk."

"Whatever you say, man." Eliot grinned as he put his earbud back in.

Parker was saying, "… and then the weird bag just pops when the babies are ready to come out? How does it pop?"

Maria sighed. "Well, it —"

Eliot decided to save them all from that discussion. "Dammit, Hardison! Where in the hell are you?"

"It's been like half an hour," Matty added, having replaced his earbud as well. "It's the San Lorenzo Parliament Building. It's only got about thirty rooms."

"I think it's this next door." Hardison walked back over to the closet door and opened it. "Finally," he said as he closed it again.

"It's about damn time," grumbled Eliot.

"You are seriously out of shape," said Matty. "You need to get away from that computer and get outside more."

"No! Nuh-uh!" said Hardison, truly indignant. "No more outdoors. Last time Eliot tried to take me fishin', we got kidnapped by some hillbilly militia. I ain't never doing that again."

Matty snorted, but Eliot said with more than a little irritation, "Hardison, that was _one_ time!"

Matty's smile faded, and he raised his eyebrows at Hardison. "Wait, you weren't joking?"

"Why in the hell would I joke about that?"

"Ooh, that was when we stole a train to save them!" said Parker. "But they didn't get on it."

Eliot relished the inanity of the banter and its ability to both relax and focus him as Maria murmured, "The lives you all lead."

"Okay guys, get ready," said Nate. "The polls are about to close."

"Shhh!" Sophie said. It didn't seem to be directed at the team. Then she suddenly gasped, and Eliot could hear cheering through the earbuds.

"Oh my god," said Maria. Eliot could picture her shaking her head in disbelief. "'Rumors from parliament of an upset victory for Michael Vittori'… We actually did it."

Hardison grinned. "Age of the geek, baby!"

"Babe, _we_ didn't do it." There was a steely note in Matty's voice. "Remember? Stealing an election?"

"Yes … right …" Maria whispered.

Eliot's jaw clenched, and the relaxation that the banter had provided vanished into thin air. Why was it so impossible for Matty to let that go? Nate had already explained to him that this was the only way. And now his reaction had Maria upset. They did not need this shit right now.

He opened his mouth to snap at Matty but was interrupted by Nate.

"all right guys," the mastermind said dramatically. "Here we go."

"Copy that!" Parker chirped, and Eliot heard the sound of a blow torch being lit.

"Copy that," Eliot murmured. He turned to Matty. "You ready, Colonel?"

The question sounded innocent enough, but Eliot tilted his head slightly to the side, hoping to convey in a simple look: _Cut the crap, Ramirez. It's go-time._

Matty's eyes narrowed in obvious annoyance at the juxtaposition of verbal respect and silent defiance. He responded aloud with, "Ready as I'll ever be, _Commander_."

Eliot bristled at Matty pulling rank, while Matty tilted his head and conveyed a look of his own: _Fine. But this isn't over, Spencer._

Eliot sighed inwardly. _It never is with us, Matty._

Then Matty's brave face was back. "Hope for the best …"

"Prepare for the worst," Eliot finished automatically. The phrase snapped him into a mindset he hadn't even thought about, much less stepped into, in eight years. It was a military state of mind — forcing emotions, especially fear, to take a backseat; giving orders, but following them, too; thinking tactically, and when that didn't work, going with his gut. It was a mentality that Pete had dubbed Commander Mode.

Hardison raised his eyebrows. "So what's your plan for getting their attention?"

Eliot tossed Matty a smirk. Then he gave Hardison a nice, hard shove, sending the hacker careening backward into a large pile of boxes.

"What the — Eliot!" Hardison's limbs flew in every direction, knocking even more supplies off the shelves and making a huge racket.

Then the voice — or was it a memory? He couldn't tell — hit him like a slap in the face. _"You _are_ pretty dickish when you're in Commander Mode."_

Matty laughed quietly. "You know, Hardison, maybe you should thrash around more. I don't think they've heard you yet."

Eliot shook his head and forced a laugh of his own to push the voice away. "Stay there," he ordered Hardison. Not a second later, the closet door burst open and two guards stormed in, guns raised.

Waiting until both men were completely inside, Eliot and Matty each grabbed one. Eliot kicked the door closed as silently as possible before he snatched the gun from his guard with one hand, punching the man in the neck with the other. As the guard choked, Eliot disarmed the gun and tossed it behind him, muttering, "Don't touch that, Hardison." He hit the guard once in the solar plexus, spun him around, and wrapped an arm around his neck. Ten seconds later, the man was unconscious.

Then Eliot looked at Matty, who wasn't quite finished with his own guard. Eliot hadn't seen Matty fight in eight years, but he'd always admired his style. Compared to Eliot's extensive training in a variety of fighting techniques, Matty's standard army training seemed almost simplistic. Eliot's movements were fluid and efficient; Matty's were haphazard and almost dirty. While Eliot taunted opponents into attacking first so that he could use their own momentum against them, Matty wasted no time, doing whatever he needed to do to disarm his opponent as quickly as possible.

Just as Eliot stood up from lowering his own unconscious guard softly to the ground, he watched Matty dodge a fist, kicking his guard in the side of the kneecap; as the man fell to his knees, Matty smacked the guard's gun into his face, knocking him to the ground. One final punch and the guard was out.

As Matty stood up, too, Eliot smirked, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall in his best Matty Ramirez impression. "Beat you."

Matty failed to keep disappointment and frustration from his voice. "It's not a competition!"

"Says the loser," Hardison murmured, getting up and dusting himself off.

"Gee, thanks, Hardison," said Matty as Eliot laughed. "Really feeling the support. It's not like _I _pushed you into the boxes."

"Hey, man, you laughed. You don't get off scot-free."

Eliot grabbed the guard's radio. "Hardison, shut up and start getting the gear on."

"I don't think so." Matty snatched the radio from Eliot's hands. "Your American accent will give us away in a second." Before Eliot could protest, he rattled off some Spanish into the radio.

"Ha!" Parker's odd laugh came loudly over the earbuds. "What did Matty just say?"

"Said we needed one more guy for backup," Eliot explained grumpily as he took the riot gear off of Matty's guard. "And my accent isn't that bad." In response to the snorts that sounded both in the room and over the comms, he growled, "All right. That's enough. Matty needs to concentrate."

"Oh, am I taking this one out, then?" asked Matty. "How generous."

As if on cue, a third guard entered the closet. Matty dispatched him similarly to the first and started taking off his gear, as well.

"Damn, Matty," said Hardison. "All joking aside, you are … seriously a badass!"

Matty chuckled awkwardly, and Eliot could have sworn he saw a slight blush.

"Wait, what did he do?" asked Parker. "How is he a badass?"

Hardison made exaggerated fighting motions with his arms, as if Parker could see him; Eliot rolled his eyes. "He like beat these two guys up like it was nothing! It was like watching Eliot, except different. Like, less angry."

"Whoa. That is good," Parker agreed.

"You don't have to act so surprised." Matty's attempt to sound irritated was undercut by the slight grin on his face. "I am a colonel, you know."

Hardison suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Oh … well … I dunno, I guess I assumed it was because …"

Matty's grin evaporated, replaced by a crestfallen frown and a sigh. "Yeah, you wouldn't be the first."

_What the hell, Hardison?_

Eliot felt a defensive anger rise to the surface, and the words were out before he could stop them: "You know what, Hardison, that's a bullshit assumption. Matty deserves to be where he is. First of all, the General does _not_ play favorites. Just because Matty's his son-in-law doesn't mean he gets promoted without merit, all right? Second, Matty is one of the best damn soldiers I've ever seen, inside or outside of San Lorenzo. He doesn't only deserve to be a colonel; he should be a damn general by now! I think you owe him an apology, and maybe try thinking before you speak next time."

The comms were so quiet that the only thing Eliot could hear was Parker working her way down the steam vent. Hardison and Matty both stopped putting on their riot gear and stared at Eliot, the former with eyebrows raised and a slight smirk on his face, the latter with a look of complete and utter shock.

"Yeah ..." Hardison's grin grew as he spoke. "So I was gonna say it was because of his leadership skills and rugged good looks ... but you clearly needed to get that off your chest, man."

Eliot suddenly became very interested in the proper adjustment of his gear. He cleared his throat. "Right. Obviously that's part of it, too."

Matty blinked a few times, mouth agape. When he finally closed his mouth, his jaw tightened as his face turned an impressively dark shade of red. "El … I — I don't know what to say. I didn't realize —"

Hardison, completely dressed except for his helmet, paused in the middle of placing it on his head. "Wait a sec ... He's never told you that before?" And Eliot had thought that annoying grin couldn't grow any wider. "Oh man, you guys just had a moment, didn't you? Like, a bro moment. Okay, y'all need to hug it out, right now, before we do anything else."

Eliot's growl entered the lower range of human hearing, and Matty seemed to snap out of his … whatever it was as he rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Yeah, that's not really necessary."

"Oh, it's completely necessary. Wouldn't you say, Maria?"

The smile in Maria's voice was evident. "My only concern is that I wouldn't get to see it."

How big could Hardison's damn grin get? "Oh, I definitely got a picture of both of their faces."

"Dammit, Hardison!" Eliot snapped as Matty said, "What the f—"

Hardison had to duck to avoid Eliot's lunge. "Hey, hey, calm down! Why y'all getting so angry? I'm just trying to be some light-hearted comic relief here!"

Before Eliot could stop it, a memory rose to the front of his mind.

_"I appreciate the offer, El, but you really should listen to Matty," Pete said. "He's the smart one."_

_"Hey!" Eliot objected. "I thought I was the smart one."_

_"No, that's definitely Matty. He always thinks through everything, considering the options. You're the crazy one — acting on instinct, taking risks. Doing, not thinking."_

_Matty crossed his arms and flashed his dashing smile as he leaned against the wall. "So if I'm the smart one, and El's the crazy one, what's that make you?"_

_Pete grinned. "I'm the plucky comic relief!" He rolled his eyes. "Obviously."_

"Wait, so all your babbling — that's supposed to be funny?" Matty's irritated tone brought Eliot back to the present and was so representative of Eliot's own jarred emotions that he wondered if Matty had recalled the same memory.

But as usual, Hardison wasn't fazed. "It's hilarious, thank you very much. And you're just deflecting because you don't want to admit Eliot just gave you a huge compliment. I saw how red your face got. It was adorable."

As if on cue, Matty's face turned red again. "I didn't —"

"Phew!" Parker said suddenly. "It's a dry heat!"

"The steam vent?" Maria asked. "Actually it's —"

"Don't even try," said Eliot. "You in, Parker?"

Faintly, through Parker's earbud, Eliot heard General Flores ask, "Who are you?"

"I'm supposed to tell you," Parker whispered dramatically, "'We be the cavalry.'"

"Spencer!" Juan said with a small chuckle.

Eliot smiled to himself at the sound of Juan's voice before another memory hit him in the gut, thrusting him back to that San Lorenzan warehouse.

_Matty's relief was palpable even over the lousy radio connection. "Don't worry, guys — we be the cavalry."_

_Eliot rolled his eyes. He knew Matty had been waiting for a moment like this to break out that phrase and throw it in Eliot's face._

_Pete shook his head furiously and grabbed Eliot's arm. "El, the wedding. Matty can't come here. You have to tell him —"_

_"You'd better not be with the 'em, Ramirez," Eliot warned into the radio. But he secretly hoped Matty was leading the cavalry — the man's tactical prowess was unmatched in San Lorenzo. If anyone could save them, it was Matty._

With a rough shake of his head, Eliot forced himself back to the present. _Focus, Spencer. Not today._

Matty was staring at him, jaw tight and face a bit paler than usual. "The cavalry? Really?"

Eliot growled at him just as Parker asked, "Can he make the call now?"

"Who are you talking to?" came Juan's voice.

"Yes," Eliot said. "We're headed out now."

"Eliot says you can make the call," said Parker.

Eliot, Matty, and Hardison exited the closet in their riot gear.

"Hey, Eliot," whispered Hardison. "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?"

A series of chuckles sounded through the comms.

"Come on, Eliot." In Nate's voice, Eliot could hear that smirk that always made him want to punch the mastermind in the face. "You have to admit that one was pretty funny."

"All of you shut up," Matty hissed. "Especially you, Hardison."

"Why especially me? Just because he gave you some amazing compliment earlier?"

"Hardison!"

They walked down the short hallway, which ended with the elevator going down into the Tombs. There were two guards stationed outside of it; one of them was on the phone.

"You three!" shouted the unoccupied guard. "Where were you?"

"You don't wanna know," Matty said.

The other guard ended his call. "Well you're with us," he said. "We have orders from the president himself to finish off Flores."

"Finally," said the first guard. "I don't know why they didn't let us do that when we arrested him."

Eliot and Matty both growled, but low enough so that only the earbuds picked it up.

"Damn, even _I_ want to punch that guy in the face," said Hardison under his breath.

"Dibs," Eliot murmured at the same time that Matty said, "He's mine."

Maria sighed. "Please, boys …"

Matty growled again, and Eliot coupled his audible sigh with a silent eye roll.

"Election inspectors," said the second guard, who had been on the phone. "The U.N. doesn't exactly approve of killing off your opponents. Let's go," he added to Eliot, Hardison, and Matty, who entered the elevator first.

"Which is why we couldn't take care of _her_ either, right?" said the first guard as the doors closed.

Matty sucked in a sharp breath, tensing next to Eliot, who reached out and put what he hoped was a calming hand on Matty's arm.

"Matty, _please_ be careful," Maria begged.

"Well, that and the fact that she's pregnant," said the second guard.

"Why does that matter?"

Eliot's fists clenched as he removed his hand from Matty's arm and whispered, "Yeah, he's all yours, Matty."

The elevator doors opened to the sight of the General's men gathered in the hallway, talking with Parker. Juan, whose back was to the elevator, turned around as the guards marched out of the elevator.

Eliot's heart leapt in his chest at seeing the man — he was a little worse for wear but obviously unhurt. Then Eliot felt a surge of warmth run through his body as Juan stepped forward, placing Parker and his men behind him, and assumed a defensive stance.

"On my signal," Eliot murmured. "One …"

But Matty couldn't wait. He kicked the first guard — the one who had so casually discussed killing both Juan and Maria — in the back, causing the man to slam face-first into the floor, then used his nightstick to deal the guard a blow to the head, plus a couple extra for good measure.

"I thought you said he was less angry than Eliot," Parker said, watching Matty as she stepped off to the side toward Hardison.

"Yeah, well, this is a special case," Hardison replied.

Eliot hit his guard over the head only once. Then he took off his helmet and looked at Matty. "I said on my signal. You couldn't wait two seconds?"

Matty took off his own helmet. "Fuck that."

They both turned to the group in front of them. Juan was beaming. Eliot held out his hand to shake, but Juan pulled him into an embrace instead. Eliot returned it, letting his head fall onto Juan's shoulder.

God, he'd missed Juan. Everything about the man relaxed Eliot — his gentle voice; his kind eyes; his long, tight hugs; the way he grabbed the back of Eliot's head and pulled him close. Eliot hadn't been held like this in … well, in eight years.

"Eliot, my boy," Juan whispered. "It's good to see you again."

"You too," was all Eliot managed to say.

"Damn," Hardison said. "I've never seen Eliot get hugged ever, and this is like the hundredth time in only a few days."

"Yeah, that happens with him." Matty's voice was strained.

_Really, Matty? Still jealous after all these years?_

_"Of course he's jealous, El,"_ said the voice. _"Not like you guys actually resolved anything before you left — without saying goodbye, by the way."_

Juan pulled away. "Look at you. What have you done to your hair?"

Parker and Hardison laughed. Even Matty cracked a smirk.

Eliot shrugged. "I like it."

Juan chuckled. "Well it's certainly not regulation, Commander."

Eliot couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "That's kinda the point."

Juan sighed contentedly and shook his head. "It's so good to see you." Then he turned and suddenly embraced a slightly unprepared Matty. "Matty, son, it's good to see you, too."

As Matty said, "You all right?" Eliot felt a wave of his own jealousy surge through him. _Son?_ There had been a time when Juan considered Eliot a son. To Eliot, Juan would always be a surrogate father … did Juan not feel the same?

_"To be fair,"_ said the voice. _"Good sons call more often than every few years and try to visit once in a while."_

_That wasn't my fault!_

_"Doesn't change the fact that you missed eight years' worth of … everything."_

No, it didn't.

"I'm fine," Juan answered Matty's question. "Maria?"

"Still pregnant, at the safe house with Anita and Berto."

"I want to talk to him!" Maria said.

"All right." Matty winced. "And she wants to talk to you."

Juan blinked. "How?"

"With this." Hardison stepped forward and handed Juan an earbud. "I'm Alec Hardison, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Juan said, shaking Hardison's hand and gingerly placing the earbud in his ear. "Hello?"

"Papa!" Maria was clearly in tears. "You're okay?"

"I'm fine, _mija_. Your mother and the children?"

"We're all just waiting for this to be over."

"So are we," inserted Nate. "General, it's good to hear your voice. This is —"

"Nate Ford, yes." Juan smiled. "This is quite an elaborate scheme you have here."

"Well, I do what I can. Sorry to cut everyone's reunion short, but we have a smug, soulless bastard and his puppet president to take down, so if you don't mind ..."

"Of course. Lead the way, Mr. Ford. What do you need from me?"

"I'll need you to give an on-camera interview when you get topside. Just like the one you did on the phone. It was perfect."

"Well, I do what I can, too." Juan winked at Eliot, who grinned back.

"Now, Eliot?" Nate continued. "Slight change of plan."

The grin evaporated.

"How slight?" asked Matty. "Which letter are we on now?"

"Yeah … well, this is a new plan. Doesn't have a letter yet."

Eliot couldn't believe it. "Dammit, Nate!" A completely new plan? It was already a miracle they'd gotten this far. Now Nate wanted them to go up against Moreau while winging it? "We said no last-minute changes!"

"I know, but Sophie gave me an idea, and I think it's the best way to get her out of her … situation."

"I heard that pause," Sophie said. "But does this mean you actually listened?"

"I always listen."

Parker and Hardison both gave huge eye rolls, and Sophie's was practically audible. Eliot let out his most menacing growl, causing everyone in the Tombs to stare in alarm.

"All right, Eliot," said Nate. "Here's the plan."

As Nate explained — _Slight changes, my ass_ — Juan's smile grew in almost exact proportion to Matty's frown.

Eliot's scowl became so deep that he wasn't sure he'd be able to climb back out of it.

"Ooh, I love a good death scene!" squealed Sophie.

"That's … brilliant," said Maria. "It removes her from everything without anyone wondering where she went …"

"…and has the added bonus of hammering another nail into Ribera's coffin," Juan finished. "Beautifully elegant."

"Um, I hate to rain on everyone's awesome-parade here," Matty said. "But exactly _how_ is this going to happen?"

"Eliot?" said Nate.

The helmet Eliot still held in his hands started to crack from the strain it was under. "Nate, I need a hell of a lot longer than fifteen minutes to prep a faked assassination!"

"Well, you have ten. Can you do it?"

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut tight and counted slowly to ten while wracking his brain for a way to carry out the plan while keeping everyone alive — even if they were pretending to be dead.

When he reached seven, his eyes snapped open. "All right. Matty, I'm gonna need a gun with blanks in it."

Matty reached into his holster and removed his sidearm. He grabbed it by the muzzle, holding it out to Eliot. "Here."

"I said blanks, Matty."

Matty flipped the gun so Eliot could see the butt. It was marked with a large white _B_. "This one's got blanks in it."

"Seriously?" Hardison asked. "Why in the hell are you carrying a gun with blanks in it?"

Matty shrugged. "Crowd control. We don't have fancy rubber bullets and tear gas like the U.S."

"Wait, so does that one also have blanks in it?" Parker pointed to another gun on Matty's belt.

"No, this is my actual sidearm."

Hardison put his hands in a T-shape. "Whoa, timeout. You use guns?"

Matty blinked as Juan and his men — who, Eliot realized, must have been quite confused, what with only being able to hear about eighty percent of the conversation — chuckled. "I'm in the army. Yes."

"It's just that Eliot —"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Matty groaned, to more chuckles. Then, in a low, gravelly voice with a horrible Southern accent that Eliot assumed was supposed to be an impression of himself, Matty said, "I don't like guns." This caused everyone in the Tombs — as well as Nate, Sophie, and Maria — to burst into laughter.

Eliot growled. "I do _not_ sound like that, Matty, and —"

"That's another thing, Commander." Matty crossed his arms and looked sternly at Eliot. "I outrank you now, so I'd appreciate it if you addressed me as Colonel or Sir."

The slight twinkle in Matty's eye indicated that he was at least half-joking, and Eliot nearly let loose a definitely insubordinate, slightly profane response. But as he looked around, he realized that Matty was highly-respected among these men, most of whom were either current or former military. Eliot didn't even know most of them, though they most assuredly knew of him. So he swallowed his pride, looked Matty in the eyes, and murmured, "Yes, sir."

Matty actually looked surprised, and Hardison exclaimed, "Whoa! How did you do that?"

Matty smirked. "What, make him get into line like that?" He shrugged. "It's a gift."

Hardison burst into laughter and held out his hand to Matty. Eliot watched as the two of them performed an odd handshake, not unlike the one Eliot and Hardison shared.

A sudden, immense wave of jealousy nearly knocked Eliot off his feet. When had that happened? And why? _What the hell, Matty? Don't you have enough people in your damn perfect life?_

_"Not when his friends keep dying or leaving,"_ the voice said. It was relentless. _"And maybe Hardison wants a friend who won't leave him to drown in a pool —"_

"Parker," Eliot snapped, perhaps a little too sharply. "I need you to get a paintball gun with red paint in it."

Parker reached into her backpack and pulled out a small paintball gun marked with red paint.

Hardison's eyes widened. "Woman, why in the hell do you have that?"

Parker shrugged. "Pretzels."

If possible, Hardison's eyes widened even more. "Wait, what? What the hell were you planning?"

"It's a surprise." Parker turned to Eliot. "I'm gonna need that back."

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Now, I'm going to need you and Hardison to —"

"Steal an ambulance?" Parker clapped excitedly.

"Borrow, Parker," Nate corrected.

"Yes, borrow," Eliot repeated for the benefit of everyone in the room without earbuds. "Temporarily. We're going to give it back." _We don't steal ambulances._

"Aww." Parker's shoulders fell, like a kid being told she couldn't have dessert.

"Okay guys," said Nate. "We're hot. Get out —"

There was a grunt, as if Nate had been hit with something.

"Nate?" Eliot nearly shouted into the earbud. "Nate, talk to me!"

"Hey, hey!" came Nate's voice over the comms. "Watch the jacket! It's worth more than you make in a year!"

"Nate!" Eliot tried and failed to keep the growing panic from his voice.

"They're taking me to Moreau." Nate was speaking under his breath, through gritted teeth.

Eliot's heart stopped.

This was it. His worst nightmare. Moreau was going to kill one of them.

He moved to the elevator. "Where are you? I'm coming."

"No you're not, I need to talk to Ribera. This is part of the plan."

Eliot froze. "What the hell do you mean 'it's part of the plan'? Which plan?"

"Plan A."

"Dammit, Nate, why didn't you tell me?" Eliot threw his helmet into the wall as hard as he could, out of anger — and fear.

"Because I knew you wouldn't approve."

What was it Nate had said when Moreau had found out they were in the country, and Eliot had asked for the afternoon to "take care of some things," before the team learned about Maria and Matty?

_"No, Eliot! No more secrets!"_

_You god-damn lying son of a bitch._ "Damn right I wouldn't approve! Moreau is not gonna play around!"

"Eliot, I need you to get Sophie out."

_Moreau is going to kill you and you're worried about Sophie?_ "Right now Sophie is safe! You are not."

Nate's voice was steely. "Eliot, I need you to get the team out. Now."

"Matty and the General can get Sophie." Eliot looked at Matty, who nodded. "I'm coming after you."

"Eliot, why don't you let me worry about conning Moreau, and you worry about keeping the team safe?"

_"Nate, how about you just worry about how to con Moreau, and I'll worry about getting us all out of here alive, okay?"_

Eliot let out a frustrated growl. Of course Nate Ford would throw those words back in his face.

He had to force himself to speak as slowly and clearly as possible, trying to keep the panic from his voice. "Nate, you cannot just walk in and talk to Damien Moreau. He will _kill_ you."

"Eight years ago you went up against him drunk and wearing only half a tux, and you came away fine."

Eliot's jaw dropped. "Dammit Nate, that's different, and you know it!"

"Why?"

"Because I had —" Eliot stopped as he realized what he was about to say. He rubbed his face and sighed heavily. "Leverage."

"You don't say?" Eliot could hear the smile in Nate's voice — how could the man be so smug and casual about this? "Well, so do I."

"No, you don't!" Eliot ran his hands through his hair, nearly ripping it out. He couldn't have kept the fear and panic from his voice now even if he'd tried. "You can't just con Moreau, Nate! Don't you get it? You're out of your league."

When Nate spoke again, his voice was quiet and calm. "Not anymore. You leveled the playing field by bringing in Maria and Matty and their resources. Now he's just another guy in a suit."

Eliot was pacing, panting, panicking — he didn't know what to do. He couldn't convince Nate. Moreau was going to kill him.

"Eliot, I need you to trust me on this. I need ten minutes with Ribera. He'll fold like a cheap card table once I offer him something better than what Moreau's giving him. Ten minutes, and you can come get me."

Ten minutes. Eliot's mind whirred with the things Moreau could do to Nate in ten minutes. He took a deep breath. "Do you actually have something to offer Ribera?"

"Yes. I need you to trust me, Eliot. I know you don't have any reason to right now, after everything that's happened, but I only need ten minutes, and then Moreau will be gone for good. I promise you that."

Eliot opened his mouth to say something when he felt a strong hand on his arm.

"Eliot." He looked up and met Juan's eyes. As always, they were kind and understanding, but right now they also flashed with something Eliot had never before seen in them — doubt. "Can he do it? Can he finish Moreau?"

Before he could even think, Eliot nodded. "Yes."

The kind eyes filled with relief and burned bright with hope. "Then let him."

Juan squeezed Eliot's arm before he released it. The gesture had a calming effect — Eliot's heart rate fell, his breathing slowed, and he, too, started to hope.

_If anyone can do this, Nate can._

"You'd better be done by nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds, Nate, because I'm coming in after you a second later."

"You got it," said Nate. Then, aloud, he said in his con voice, "Good. We can talk."

Eliot tried to block Ribera's subsequent yell and the sound of Nate crashing into something from his mind. "Okay. Hardison, Parker go get the ambulance. Sophie, get Vittori into the crowd in the lobby. Matty —"

Before he could even finish the thought, Matty said, "Got it." He turned to the General's men. "You all, follow me." They moved toward the elevator.

As Matty passed Eliot, he grabbed Eliot's arm and nodded to tell the men to pass by him. Pulling Eliot close, he whispered into his ear — the one without the earbud — "I'll be closer to him than you. Say the word and I'm there."

Eliot's heart nearly stopped. Matty's family was safe — Maria, Anita, and Berto were at the safe house, and they'd just broken Juan out of prison. That meant Matty had one job left, and it was only if Nate succeeded, after they were all out of danger. He'd made it alive — and here he was offering to jump back into the fire to save Nate. To keep the promise he'd made to Eliot only a few hours earlier.

Eliot turned to meet Matty's eyes, but there was no fear there now. Just resolve and that brave soldier face.

Fuck it all. All the jealousy and anger and resentment — Matty was doing this for _him_, just as he'd have done it for Matty.

But would he be able to sacrifice Matty to save Nate? Or Nate to keep Matty alive for Maria and the kids? He hoped to God he wouldn't have to make that call.

He couldn't say what he wanted to — and not just because of the earbud — so instead he said the first thing he could think of. "Yes, sir."

Matty gave a short salute — even though senior officers never initiated salutes to subordinates — which Eliot returned. Then Matty deftly replaced the earbud in his own ear.

_You're getting damned good at this cloak and dagger stuff, Matty._

"All right," Matty said as he moved to the elevator, where the General's men were waiting. "Hardison, Parker come on."

"Actually, I'm going to take the steam vent —"

"No!" Eliot snapped. "Stay together."

Parker huffed but stepped into the elevator.

"Steam vent," said one of the General's men, shaking his head.

Matty laughed as the doors closed. "I know, right?"

Eliot turned back around. Juan raised his eyebrows and looked around the empty room. "So, Commander, what's my job?"

Eliot bent down and removed a helmet from one of the unconscious guards, holding it out. "General," he said with a smile. "You're with me."


	18. Chapter 18

_Thank you everyone for all of your lovely reviews! I'm glad everyone's still enjoying this! A special thanks to quirkapotamus for her always amazing beta._

Chapter 18

Damien Moreau's voice sounded over the comms. "Ford. You honestly think you stood a chance?"

"Honestly, no," Nate responded. "We didn't stand a chance in hell."

Eliot sucked in a sharp breath as he and Juan stepped out of the elevator from the Tombs.

Matty's voice over the comms was tense. "Is he always like this with people who are trying to kill him?"

"Yes," Parker and Hardison said at the same time.

Eliot's near-constant growl, which until this point he'd kept low enough to prevent the earbuds picking it up, rose in volume.

"See?" said Parker. "Even Eliot agrees."

"Dammit, Parker, I —"

"Eliot," interrupted Juan. "Why do I have to fire the blanks? I'd much rather fire the paintballs."

Eliot, completely aware that Juan was attempting to distract him from Nate's conversation, gratefully allowed himself to be sucked into a faux argument.

"With all due respect, sir, you retired years ago." While Juan couldn't see Eliot's smirk due to the helmets they both wore, Eliot made sure it was audible in his voice. "When was the last time you fired a gun?"

"Me?" Juan chuckled. "When was the last time _you_ fired a gun?"

An image flashed through Eliot's mind: Chapman, eyes wide, four holes in his chest, sliding down the side of a crate. He blinked it away and said, with effort, "I keep in practice."

"Well so do I."

Matty snorted.

Juan's gentle voice immediately morphed into the General's stern tone. "Do you have something you'd like to say, Colonel Ramirez?"

Matty was clearly attempting not to laugh. "Absolutely not, sir."

"Sophie's on my team," Eliot said before Juan could respond. "She's my responsibility. I'm firing the paintballs."

"Fine." Juan sighed, but Eliot could picture the twinkle in his eye. "But I get to say, 'Viva Ribera,' because your accent screams 'cowboy.' You'll ruin the whole plan."

"Yes, sir," Eliot grumbled playfully. The banter was so natural, so comforting, so … familiar. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed just being around Juan.

Eight years was a long time.

"Matty, you in position?"

"Affirmative," Matty said. "You?"

"Roger that." As Eliot and Juan approached the balcony from which they'd "kill" Sophie, Eliot looked over the railing to see Matty in the crowd, present but not conspicuous. Just as they'd planned. "Sophie, where are you?"

"In a minute. I lost Michael …"

"Parker, Hardison?"

"We've got the ambulance —"

"Hardison wouldn't let me drive!"

"— and we're on our way back to Parliament."

"Wait," said Maria. "How are you going to keep a real ambulance from coming?"

"Well, we _are_ a real ambulance," Hardison explained. "I'll just call in and explain that we're closest so no one else answers the calls."

"And what are you going to do when people want to know what happened to the body?" asked Matty.

"I'll — I'm — let's just say I got it under control, man." Hardison sounded more than a little uncomfortable. "And —"

Matty sighed. "Let me guess: I don't want to know?"

"Exactly!" Parker chirped.

"_I'd_ like to know," said Juan. "In fact, when this is all over, I'd like to sit down over scotch and a cigar, and you can walk me through exactly how this grand plan of yours worked."

Eliot's heart swelled — scotch and cigars with Juan. He'd missed that so much over the years, and never dreamed he'd have the opportunity again. In spite of everything else going on around him, he smiled. "Sure thing."

"Oh, Papa," Maria said. "It's so spectacularly brilliant and complex … Eliot and his team are really going to save us."

"You know …" Matty clearly spoke through gritted teeth. "It's not actually _Eliot's_ idea … it's Nate's."

Eliot's grin disappeared, along with the lightness in his heart that had accompanied it. Matty could always be counted on to put a damper on things —couldn't Eliot just have this one moment with Juan?

"Hey, Matty," he sneered. "Try to keep in mind these are _fake_ bullets. I know it'll be difficult, but try not to jump in front of them, all right?"

"Ha!" came Parker's distinctive laugh.

Sophie sounded breathless, as if she was walking quickly, and just a little shrill. "Don't you dare interfere in my tragic death scene, Matty!"

"She's not kidding," said Hardison with a chuckle. "She's really serious about her death scenes."

Eliot felt a surge of pleasure course through him, but it was followed immediately by a pang of guilt when Juan tensed next to him.

Maria was conspicuously silent.

_Dammit, Spencer._ The Floreses had almost lost Matty; this wasn't a joke to them.

Matty didn't think it was funny, either. "I'll do my best, _Commander_, but maybe next time you could try to keep your people from improvising last-minute when going up against Moreau."

Eliot winced. Matty always knew which knives to twist.

"My, my," Juan muttered. "Has it really been eight years? Apparently some things never change." The disappointment in his tone made Eliot flush in shame. "Have they been like this the whole time, Maria?"

Maria sighed. "Almost exclusively." Then her voice perked up. "Except for a moment right before they rescued you when Eliot told Matty he was one of the best soldiers he knew, and he deserved to be a general. I think Hardison even got a picture of Matty blushing a _very_ dark red."

"And Eliot's awkward face!" exclaimed Hardison. "I'll send it to all of you when this is over."

Matty grumbled, "Really?" and Eliot growled.

But as Juan relaxed and chuckled and said, "I can't wait to see that," Eliot couldn't deny that Maria had not only successfully diffused the situation, but even lightened everyone's mood.

"Oh, come on, boys," Maria continued. "If we can't laugh about things, what's the point?" Then her voice shifted, and she suddenly sounded like she had in the video — like she was rallying the troops. "Let's try to focus on the positives here. Everything's going to turn out fine."

_You're even better at this than your father, Maria._

Of course it was at that moment that Sophie's panicked voice sounded over the comms. "Eliot, they've got Vittori!"

Eliot's breath caught in his throat. Nate getting captured was bad enough — not Vittori, too. _He's the only way to get Sophie out._ "I'm out of position. Matty?"

"I can't do anything — I'm in the crowd. Are they bringing him downstairs, Sophie?"

Sophie let out a frustrated groan. "Never mind, I'll do it myself."

Through the comms came the sound of clanking glass, a pop, and a scream.

"What the hell did she just do?" Matty sounded both surprised and awed.

Then Vittori's voice came through Sophie's earbud. "They were taking me to the presidential palace."

"You're adorable," replied Sophie.

Maria groaned. "Oh, Michael..."

"Is this guy really the one who's gonna be in charge of your _country_?" asked Hardison.

"He won't be alone." Juan sounded completely unperturbed at the naïveté of his future president. "He'll have plenty of advisors."

"We need to get you into that crowd _now_!" Sophie was saying to Vittori. "Go!"

Eliot crouched next to the railing. "All right, guys, get ready."

As he watched Sophie approach the news crews, dragging Vittori behind her, Eliot's heart pounded. Matty's sharp words echoed in his ears: _improvising last-minute when going up against Moreau_. They couldn't afford any mistakes here. Sophie's life — and the rest of the plan — depended on it.

But Sophie's impromptu speech was fantastic. Eliot himself was nearly ready to jump up and join her cause until he remembered that he was a part of it already — and had been for nearly ten years.

"… rise up and take your freedom!" Sophie finished with a flourish of her impressively accurate San Lorenzan accent.

That was the signal.

Eliot whispered, "Three, two, one."

"Viva Ribera!" shouted Juan, and they both fired.

The gunshots echoed in Eliot's head, and his nostrils filled with the smell of gunpowder. He flinched, closing his eyes.

When he breathed next, the air that entered his lungs was damp and dark, thick with sweat, with tension — and fear. He was leaning on a rough surface. A wooden crate.

"So we just have to get to that door," Nate said, out of breath.

They were in the D.C. warehouse.

Eliot's eyes snapped open. "That's a kill box. There's too much space between here and there."

How had he let this happen? He should have seen it coming. Of course Moreau had figured things out; he always did. He knew how Eliot thought … and Eliot knew how Moreau thought.

Six months of research — six months of plotting, planning, waiting, wondering, fearing, hiding from the team; the panicked reworking of the past few days; talking with Moreau again at the hotel; letting Hardison nearly drown; telling the team and seeing their horrified, fearful, _disappointed _faces; utilizing every fiber of his being to restrain himself from snapping Chapman's neck right there in the car; pretending to kill Atherton — all of it, wasted. Gone in a flash, their cover blown. They were trapped.

They were dead.

No. He couldn't let that happen.

He turned to the Italian. She was … not what he had expected. When they'd found her, he'd assumed she was just some bimbo of Moreau's until Nate spoke to her in her native language. Whenever Nate had talked about her over the past few months, Eliot had pictured a middle-aged female mob boss — an old, frigid, Italian bitch. Not … this.

"Are you sure you can actually take down Moreau?" Eliot had to know. Her answer would determine everything.

She didn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

In that moment — even though he had never met her; even though it had probably been her that had blown their cover; even though he hated her for exploiting the team; even though he _loathed _her for using the team to play Nate the way Dubenich had used Sam — in that moment, Eliot believed her.

But in the next moment, Eliot realized her answer had never actually mattered. The only thing that mattered now was getting Nate out.

He looked down at the man whose neck he'd snapped just a minute before — his first kill in nearly a decade — and made a decision. He reached down, deep down inside and opened a door. It didn't matter that the door was buried beneath eight years of good deeds; it didn't matter that it was bolted with dozens of padlocks created by Juan and the Floreses, and Pete, and the team, and Nate. Eliot opened it as if it had never been closed at all. He let _him_ out.

Moreau's Rottweiler.

He grabbed the thug's gun and took off his jacket.

"Eliot, listen." Nate's voice was desperate. In his eyes, Eliot could see the gears whirring at top speed. He was trying to find another way.

Nate had never been able to understand that sometimes there was no other way. He always joked about Plan M, but Hardison didn't die in Plan M; no one died in Nate's plans, not even in Plan Quadruple-Z. Not even when Nate had sacrificed himself for the team — he'd given his freedom, not his life. That was the honest man in him: always a way out, always an escape.

But sometimes there was no escape. Not for everyone.

"Get her out of here," Eliot said — no, _Eliot_ didn't say it. The Rottweiler did.

Before Nate could argue, he turned and started firing.

Eliot had never liked guns. Any thug could fire a gun. It didn't take much effort to learn basic proficiency — a few classes at the local gun range could give someone enough practice to be able to hit a torso or even a head from a reasonable distance. To become a sniper, granted, took longer. There were a lot of mechanics to take into account — wind, distance, even the Coriolis effect — more math and science than Eliot had ever cared to learn — but still, seeing a target and pulling a trigger to end a life didn't take much. Snipers were just highly trained thugs.

Eliot had always preferred hand-to-hand combat. It took years of training in finely honed skills to recognize a style of fighting, decide how to counter it, assess the objects around you for use as weapons, and implement a strategy. It was a more personal way of fighting. That was the Rottweiler's style: personalized. Intimate. A unique torture, designed just for you, delivered with a sneer and ice cold blood.

But damn — he'd forgotten how glorious it felt to hold a gun. Not to disarm it, or to stay in practice, but to grip it tight and feel it become an extension of his arm. To feel the jolt of the kickback as it fired — not at a paper target, but at a person. Not to wound, but to kill. It was a gulp of cool water after crawling in the desert, a gasp of fresh air after nearly drowning, a slow drink of whiskey after too long without.

The Rottweiler had been dormant for eight years, and he was bloodthirsty.

But it didn't feel like eight years since Eliot had done this last. It felt like yesterday. He didn't have to think. He dove to avoid the gunfire, grabbed more ammo from the bodies of the fallen. He didn't need to see them to hit them; the Rottweiler had a sixth sense for danger. And killing.

The Rottweiler also had a flair for the dramatic. When the gunfire ceased, Eliot waltzed out from behind cover and took in the scene before him. He was completely vulnerable, and yet they just stared.

_Idiots._

He smacked the guns against his thighs until he heard the satisfying click of the magazines taking their place. Then he brought the guns in front of his chest and cocked them with each other — he'd forgotten how electrifying that felt, the surge of power that came with it. It propelled him forward into a run. But just as the gunshots resumed, he threw his head back and buckled his knees. His legs crumpled beneath him as he fell into a slide across the floor on the river of liquid that had spilled from somewhere, ducking the bullets and firing his own. His hit their marks; theirs didn't. When he got to the other side of the warehouse, he spun around and fired at a large barrel marked "explosives". It did what it promised.

He tucked one of the guns into his belt — like the cowboy they'd always called him — and got to his feet. The Rottweiler surveyed the damage, and a thrill shot through Eliot. A rush he hadn't felt in nearly a decade. The rush of killing.

And then it suddenly receded, cutting short the climax. The Rottweiler retreated, back into his cell, deep down. Behind the locks, beneath the good deeds.

Retreated? He never retreated. But he did now. And all that was left was Eliot Spencer. The emptiness. The chill. The soul-sucking guilt.

_Don't leave yet. Please. There's one more left. The one who deserves your worst._

"You said you didn't like guns."

Eliot turned around, slowly.

Chapman.

Eliot had never liked him. From the beginning Chapman had been a cocky asshole who was too big for his britches and jealous of the Rottweiler. But then he'd gone on to show his true colors, and Eliot had seen him for what he really was: a sick bastard who beat women — and children — and _raped_ them because it turned him on. Eliot loathed the man. It was a visceral disgust that made the bile rise in his throat. Chapman had tortured Sarah, raped and brutally murdered her, and he had killed —

Suddenly Eliot remembered why he was here. Where was Nate? The Rottweiler was gone now. His job was done. Now, Eliot needed to make sure that Nate was okay. Had he found Moreau? Was Moreau even still in the country? What about Sophie and Parker and Hardison? Had they disabled the bomb? Were they alive?

His heart pounded as Eliot Spencer remembered his job, his team — his _family_.

He didn't give a fuck about Chapman. The bastard was in his way.

"I don't." Eliot emptied the gun into Chapman's chest and watched him slide, lifeless, down the crate. "Never said I couldn't use 'em."

He ejected the magazines and threw the guns away. He had to find the team. They needed him.

"Eliot," a soft, firm voice called, as if from a distance.

Eliot blinked, and the warehouse was gone.

He was shivering, but it was too hot. He felt as if he'd been dunked into a swimming pool, and the cold sweat dripped from everywhere. His cheeks were wet with tears — tears? He didn't think his body was capable of making those anymore. He couldn't breathe, but he was hyperventilating. His heart felt like it would explode if it pumped any faster.

His eyes focused, and he stared right into the furrowed brow of Juan Flores.

"Eliot."

Eliot was sitting, shaking, with his back against the wall of the balcony in the Parliament building. In the lobby below, people were screaming. But Juan had Eliot by the arms, like he always used to, and, as always, Eliot felt a surge of calming warmth flood through him.

"Come, Eliot," General Flores ordered.

Eliot instinctively responded with a "Yes, sir," but the only sound that emerged was a guttural rasp.

Juan pulled Eliot to his feet with the strength of a man twenty years younger and dragged him off of the balcony. Once they were out of sight of the tumult in the lobby, he leaned Eliot up against a pillar.

Eliot's ears were ringing with screams, gunshots, and voices, both real and imagined. In an effort to separate the two, he took out his earbud and held it tight in his fist. Juan did the same. Then he grabbed Eliot by the arms and said, in a gentle tone tinged with anxiety, "Eliot, look at me."

Eliot did and, through still blurred vision, the kind, understanding, worried eyes gazed back. In that moment, Eliot wanted nothing more than to confess his sins, beg forgiveness, and collapse into the comforting, fatherly embrace of Juan Flores — who had never once looked at him with disgust, or detestation, or disappointment — until the scary sights and sounds in his head faded away.

But as he leaned into those reassuring, welcoming arms, they pushed him away, denying the solace he so desperately needed right now. The sting of their rejection burned Eliot's eyes, and his wounded heart ached with every beat.

Then General Flores spoke, his voice stern, his face stony. "Commander Spencer, I need you to focus."

_"I need you to focus, Rodriguez!"_

_"Hardison, I need you to focus, okay?"_

Eliot's own words joined the cacophony of screams and gunshots ricocheting inside his head, and he let out an unintelligible noise somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

The strong arms of the General shook him hard. "Commander, you have a job to do. Go meet Parker and Hardison and get Sophie out safely. Then you can get Nate. Your team needs you."

Eliot blinked. They needed him.

"That's an order, Commander."

_Commander._ His job was to protect his team.

So he closed his eyes, breathed deeply in and out, and started to clear his mind. He grabbed the guilt, and the fear, and the panic and put them in a box. Then he rounded up all the memories — of Pete, of Hardison, of Chapman and the warehouse — all the sights and sounds, and stuffed them in the box, too. Then he slammed a lid on top of it all and shoved the box into a deep, dark corner.

When he opened his eyes, the General was still staring at him. But he'd followed the order. He pushed himself off the pillar, stood up straight, and said curtly, "Yes, sir."

General Flores took a step back. "I have an interview to give. Now get moving."

Eliot turned and jogged a few steps down the hallway before Juan, who had moved in the opposite direction, called out.

"Oh, and Eliot?"

He turned. "Yes, sir?"

Juan smiled. "Rescuing me makes three."

"Two and a half!" Eliot shot back as Juan ran off, laughing.

He turned away, chuckling, and broke into a run, replacing his earbud as he did so. But what he heard stopped him dead in his tracks.

"I'm so done with you," Moreau crooned, lingering on the word _so_ as if he were savoring it, like those expensive wines he always pretentiously swirled around the inside of his mouth.

"And I'm done with you, Moreau," Nate responded in that flippant tone of his.

But Eliot didn't hear anything else. Those five words just echoed around and around his head, and he started to hyperventilate again.

_"I'm so done with you."_

He knew that tone. How many times had he heard it spoken to Moreau's enemies? How long had he spent memorizing Moreau's tiniest speech tics so that he could identify what the man wanted without so much as a hesitation?

That was the tone Moreau used when he decided that someone needed to be taken care of — and now.

"Matty …" Eliot couldn't keep the desperation from his voice. The lid on the box was loose, and the fear started to seep out.

"I'm on my way!" Matty was out of breath. "I'll be there in thirty seconds. Should I —"

"No!" Parker interrupted. "Eliot, he still has four minutes, twenty-three seconds."

For once, Eliot was glad that Parker was so damn literal, because he'd lost his own count during his … flashback.

The panic started leaking out of the box, too.

That tone wouldn't wait for four minutes, twenty-three seconds …

"Eliot, are you coming? We need to get Sophie out!" Hardison's voice reminded him to start moving again.

He could hear the shouts from the lobby … or were they just in his head? There was a large breach in the box, and sounds were spilling out now. He tried to stop them, to force them back in, but he could only focus on a couple dozen things at a time.

"I'm on my way," he said breathlessly. His heart was pounding harder than it should have been. "Give me fifteen seconds — you outside?"

"We're waiting for you, man!"

"El, I'm here." Matty. "What do you want me to do?"

_Damn, that was a fast thirty seconds._

Now images were escaping the box. Scenes of devastation Moreau had caused — that the Rottweiler had caused. Broken bones, bloodied faces, lifeless bodies …

He pushed them away as he burst through a side door and onto the street. _Focus, Spencer! Nate …_

And yet, Nate was still talking. "Well, they're not reporting the results, but they have to report people in the streets. They have to report what people are saying. In the absence of truth, the press will report rumor."

The son of a bitch was monologuing. To Damien fucking Moreau — the king of the evil monologue.

"El? Do you want me to go in?"

_Trust him, Spencer. If anyone can defeat Moreau, it's Nate Ford._

Eliot jogged up to the ambulance, far more out of breath than the minimal exertion should have left him. "Parker, time?"

"Three minutes, thirty-seven seconds!"

"Not a second sooner than that, Matty," Eliot said as he hopped into the ambulance. He ripped off his riot gear and threw on the paramedic uniform Hardison handed him.

"Ready?" Parker asked when Eliot had finished.

He straightened the collar of his polo shirt and grabbed an equipment bag. "Let's go."

He exited the ambulance first, taking a second to try to shove all the feelings, sights, and sounds back into the box while Parker and Hardison unfolded the stretcher behind him. He'd barely started by the time they were ready, so he just shook his head violently before the three of them reentered the parliament building at a brisk pace.

"Paramedics, step aside!" Eliot shouted, loud enough to be heard over the buzz of voices.

People did as he asked, but stared at him in alarm. Even Hardison and Parker looked at him funny.

"You're freaking everyone out, man. You don't gotta yell." Hardison murmured the words through the earbud, but Eliot could barely hear over all the chaos — gunshots, screams, shouts …

The crowd parted more quickly than he expected, and the sight that met his eyes froze him in place. His heart fell to somewhere in his stomach, and his blood turned to ice.

Sophie lay motionless on the floor, a jacket spread across her chest. She was covered in blood, and her eyes were wide open and … empty.

_Lifeless._

Images flashed before him — images of other empty, lifeless eyes.

In an instant he was kneeling at her side. She wasn't breathing. The light in her eyes was gone, just like —

"No…" He scooped her into his arms and walked, jogged, _ran_ back out to the ambulance. Hardison and Parker were nagging something, but he couldn't hear it. The sounds in his ears were overwhelming.

"Soph … no …" He shook her, but her head lolled. "No, please! Please wake up!"

Suddenly the box exploded, and the images he'd spent eight years burying finally burst to the forefront of his mind.

_A warehouse in San Lorenzo. He was kneeling behind a crate, covered in blood that wasn't his own._

_He was holding, clutching, clinging — begging._

_"No … Wake up … please, wake up …"_

_But he knew it was too late. He'd seen the light go out in those eyes, just like he'd seen with so many others._

"Soph … please …" He was nearly sobbing.

He'd failed. Again.

He was at the ambulance now. He heard Parker and Hardison — amid the choking and gasping and sobbing echoing in this head — come up behind him.

"Eliot, what the hell? We're supposed to —"

"Open the damn door!" he shouted.

Parker opened the door and Eliot jumped in, laying Sophie gently on the floor.

"Sophie, please," he rasped. "Breathe for me …"

The doors of the ambulance slammed behind him. At the same instant, Sophie sucked in a giant breath, as if the force of the doors had jolted her back to life.

She blinked several times and sat up straight. "Oh!" she squealed, hands clenched in fists in front of her. "That was so exhilarating!"

Eliot grabbed her by the arms and looked into her eyes. The light was back, burning as bright as it ever had. Relief coursed through him. "Sophie?"

Her brow furrowed as she focused on his face. "Eliot, are you —"

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close, holding her tightly. The steady, regular rhythm of her heartbeat was music to his ears, and he said a silent prayer of thanks to the god he didn't think he believed in anymore.

"Oh my." Sophie gasped as he embraced her, but recovered quickly and returned it. "Was I that good?"

"Yeah, you totally looked like you were dead," Parker said. "It was creepy. How did you do that?"

Eliot released Sophie so she could speak and leaned back against the wall of the ambulance, shaking all over. He was drenched in sweat, his heart was racing, and he was breathing so rapidly he thought he was going to pass out.

Sophie waved a hand dismissively, but her dazzling smile gave away her delight at the compliment. "It's all about regulating your breathing and blinking. Small, irregular movements so no one notices. The important part is the mindset. You have to _become_ a corpse."

Eliot brought a trembling hand to cover his face. She'd been acting. Of course she had. She was Sophie Devereaux.

"Forget about that!" Hardison snapped. "What the hell were you doing, Eliot? We were supposed to put her on the stretcher, slowly, in front of the cameras. For the drama!"

"No, Hardison, this was better!" Parker said excitedly. "Because Eliot was like, 'Nooooo!'" — she threw her head back and shook her fists dramatically — "and everyone was all sad. It totally worked! Nice job!" She hit Eliot in the arm — too hard, like always.

Eliot stared at the floor and focused on the sting of her punch, forcing himself to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out.

_It was fake, remember? You and Juan did it with paintballs and blanks. Nate's last-minute plan. It worked._

Too well. He'd lost it completely because he'd thought it was real … how had he lost control like that?

Sophie was looking at him oddly, head tilted to one side. "Yes, Eliot. A dramatic death scene is nothing without heartbreaking reactions from bystanders. Well done."

She was using her con voice.

Eliot didn't have any time to respond, because just then he heard a loud bang over the earbuds.

His heart skipped a beat as gunshots echoed in his head, but then he heard General Flores's voice over the comms. "What's it going to be, Ribera?"

Even Juan's stern military tone sent a peaceful warmth through Eliot. _It was a door banging open, not a gunshot. Snap out of it!_

He heard faint yelling in the background. "No! I have people! I have lawyers!"

Moreau.

His heart started to pound again. "Nate?" he said desperately. "Talk to me."

"Right here," Nate said. The smile that always made Eliot want to punch the mastermind was audible. "Alive and uninjured, with … let's see … twenty-two seconds to spare. Not bad, if I may say so myself."

Eliot focused on his breathing as the screams and gunshots and distressing images started to fade to the back of his mind.

"Destroying Damien Moreau in under ten minutes? No, not bad at all." Eliot couldn't see Matty, but he could picture him, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed, smiling his dashing smile. And Eliot could tell from the earbuds that he and Nate were speaking in person now. "I have to say, Nate, I am officially impressed."

"Why thank you," Nate responded in his cockiest mastermind voice.

If Eliot had thought the two of them were bad individually … together, Nate and Matty were a damn melodrama feedback machine.

"So, are we good to go?" Matty asked.

"He's all yours, Colonel." Eliot imagined what Nate did with his head then — an infuriatingly smug combination of a wink, a smirk, and a head bob.

"Let's go, Moreau." Matty was definitely grinning now. "You're going down to the Tombs. Don't worry. You'll hate it."

Eliot heard rustling, and Moreau's voice was suddenly louder — they were moving.

"You?" Moreau hissed.

It didn't surprise Eliot that Moreau knew who Matty was. The Floreses were his number one enemy, and Moreau always made sure to know his enemies.

"Yeah, me." The smile faded slightly, and when Matty spoke again, his voice contained a hint of something almost … sinister that Eliot had never heard there before. "Did you really think you could make threats against my wife and I wouldn't do anything about it?"

"Threats?" said Maria suddenly. "What are you talking about? Matty, _please_ be careful …"

Moreau sputtered. "Wha — you and _Ford_? Impossible! You're … honest."

"You know, Moreau, only you can make the word 'honest' sound like a four letter word." Matty seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. "But you're right. I am honest. Good thing I have a friend who's not. You remember Eliot Spencer, don't you?"

Eliot sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of his own name; his heart, still beating too quickly, sped up. _What the hell are you doing, Matty?_

A guttural noise emanated from Moreau. It was unlike anything Eliot had ever heard, and it sent a chill down his spine.

"You really should have killed him when you had the chance," Matty murmured gleefully.

"Matty," Eliot growled. Taunting Moreau had _not_ been part of the plan they'd discussed.

"No!" yelled Moreau. "Nooo! Get your hands off me!"

"Struggle a little more," Matty purred. "I'd love to have to use force on you."

"Ramirez." Moreau sounded panicked. Desperate. "I can offer you anything you want. I'll —"

Matty laughed — a large, booming laugh that Eliot had only heard a few rare times since he'd known the man. "Are you serious? You _just_ called me honest, and now you're trying to bribe me?" He laughed again, and the sound actually lightened Eliot's heart. "Damn, Eliot was right. He said it had to be me who arrested you, because you'd try to bribe whoever did. He also said you'd try with me, but I told him you weren't that stupid. I think I owe him a beer. He really does know you."

Eliot winced. Matty didn't mean them as an insult, but the words stabbed anyway. _I know how Moreau thinks …_

A loud _thunk_ came over the comms, followed by a yelp.

"Ouch," Nate murmured.

"Oops," said Matty. "That elevator door came out of nowhere."

In the ambulance, Parker giggled. Hardison gave her a high-five.

"Listen, Ramirez." Moreau sounded frantic now. "I can provide you with —"

Matty's tone was chilling. "Moreau, unless you can raise the dead, there's nothing you can offer me."

Eliot's heart — put through its paces in the past hour — squeezed hard. Matty had lost so many people: his father; his mother; his best friend, Berto Flores; and then —

"Actually, there is one thing you can give me," Matty said before pausing dramatically. "A good night's sleep. With you in prison, Moreau, I'll sleep soundly for the first time in almost twenty years, comforted by the fact that you can never hurt my wife, my children, or anyone else I care about ever again."

Moreau grunted, and Eliot knew Matty had thrown him into his cell.

"You're finished, you son of a bitch," Matty snarled. The darkness in his voice — the voice of the best, most honest man Eliot knew — revealed just how much pain and suffering Moreau had caused the people of San Lorenzo.

"You — you have to get me out of here." Moreau's begging tone indicated that he wasn't speaking to Matty anymore. "You have to extradite me. Put me on trial in Rome or Paris!"

"I'm so sorry, but San Lorenzo does not recognize extradition treaties." Wait… was that the Italian?

_Where in the hell had she come from?_

The cell door slammed.

"Damien Moreau will never leave San Lorenzo," the Italian murmured.

Moreau's screams of "Wait! Wait! Who are you people?" faded as Nate and Matty left the Tombs.

"Guys," said Nate. "Meet me outside. It's done."

As the team celebrated inside the ambulance, Eliot heaved an exhausted sigh and closed his eyes. He could hardly believe it, but slowly the magnificent truth began to sink in.

Damien Moreau was finally finished.


	19. Chapter 19

_Thank you to everyone who's still reading and reviewing! I love hearing from you! Sorry I haven't posted in a while, but wrapping up plots is long, hard work :) I hope the length makes up for it! Thanks to quirkapotamus for all her wonderful betaing. Enjoy!_

Chapter 19

Eliot stood tensed, arms crossed with his back against a pillar, scanning the ballroom. It was packed with people drinking, singing, and generally celebrating the inauguration of President Michael Vittori. A great party.

But Eliot wasn't celebrating. He couldn't relax. He usually disliked crowds; too many opportunities for attack. Tonight he loathed them. It didn't matter that Moreau was safely locked and guarded in the Tombs, or that the room — and the entire Parliament building, for that matter — was guarded by San Lorenzo's best. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen tonight, now, while everyone had their guard down.

_That__'s how Moreau does things._

After Matty had thrown the bastard in the Tombs, he, Maria, and Juan had insisted that Eliot and the team attend the inauguration and the subsequent festivities. So they'd all returned to the hotel to shower and change into something more inauguration-appropriate.

Eliot had spent most of that time retching over the toilet while his body attempted to purge the toxins wreaking havoc on it. Since those toxins were bloody deeds and memories, all it had succeeded in doing was emptying the contents of Eliot's stomach and leaving him in an exhausted heap on the bathroom floor. He'd only just dragged himself into a piping hot shower in an attempt to relax and regain control over his trembling limbs, pounding heart, and irregular breathing when Hardison had pounded on the door with a shout of, "C'mon man, we're waiting for you!"

So he'd forced himself into the nicest clothes he had with him and joined the others — with the exception of Sophie, who had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to watch from the hotel — at the inauguration of the first "freely" elected president of San Lorenzo.

Wanting to be alone, he'd avoided the team and planted himself in a corner where he could see what was happening without moving. He'd even managed to keep his mind on the inane speeches Vittori kept giving — "We did this for San Lorenzo," blah blah — until the room had insisted that Juan, the true leader of the movement for a free San Lorenzo, give a speech.

Damn, Eliot had nearly forgotten how good Juan was at this. He had given a toast, not a speech, to "the many men and women who have died in order for us to see this day — and those who have sacrificed more than their lives." He'd toasted "the next generation of San Lorenzans — my children," as he beamed, happier than Eliot had ever seen him, at Maria and Matty.

Eliot hadn't heard the rest, and was only vaguely aware of the crowd's response — louder and more enthusiastic cheers than they'd ever given Vittori — because he was too focused on keeping his breathing steady and his pulse down while his head filled once again with heart-wrenching memories: the wedding, Moreau's ultimatum, saying goodbye to Juan, that damn warehouse in San Lorenzo …

The voice — that agonizingly relentless voice that refused to be shut out or ignored — had said, _"El … you were never one of his children. He might have treated you like one eight years ago, but it was really just out of pity. He's moved on now. Why can't you?"_

So now here he was: physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted; muscles so tense he wasn't sure he remembered what they felt like relaxed; unable to unwind but unwilling to leave out of fear that Damien Moreau might not be finished for good.

"You know, considering we just stole a country, you should be a lot happier right now."

Hardison's appearance on Eliot's right side, a beer in the place of his omnipresent orange soda, made Eliot start.

Just great — Eliot was apparently unable to relax and yet incapable of perceiving even a non-threat within his range. A lot of help he'd be if Moreau actually did attempt something.

"Seriously, man," Hardison was saying. "He's gone. We defeated Moreau. Why aren't you celebrating?"

"Uh-oh, I know that look," said Matty as he came up on Eliot's left. "He's in Commander Mode."

They were flanking him now. Eliot tensed — or would have, if there had been anything left to tense — automatically.

"Commander what? Eliot, this is a party!" Hardison sounded personally affronted. "Have a beer. Flirt with women. Take one back to your hotel room. You know, do your Spencer thing."

Matty laughed. "You haven't changed at all, have you? Hardison's right. There are plenty of lovely San Lorenzan women who would fall over each other to buy drinks for someone who fought under General Flores."

He playfully smacked Eliot on the back, but Eliot's body was so rigid it barely moved.

Suddenly Parker was next to Hardison. How the hell did she do that? Eliot was the best at what he did — _"Maybe not anymore," _said that incessant voice — but somehow she could still surprise him.

"Come on!" She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Let's go! Pretzels!"

"Pretzels, huh?" Matty smirked at Hardison. They'd obviously discussed that at some point.

Parker grabbed Hardison's hand. "We have to go!"

Hardison looked at their intertwined fingers before he grinned at Matty and Eliot. "I guess I have to go."

"Have fun," said Matty. Then he and Hardison did their weird little handshake.

Eliot felt another surge of jealousy. The voice asked, _"Do you think they bonded over their mutual dislike of your plans to deal with Moreau?"_

"Try not to be such a drag, man," Hardison said. "Let your hair down, huh?" Then he actually reached up and flicked Eliot's hair.

Matty and Parker burst into laughter, and Hardison grinned like an idiot. The voice even let out a chuckle. Eliot clenched his fists so hard he felt his nails start to dig into his palm.

"See ya!" Parker said, and she skipped off, pulling a willing Hardison after her.

"Cute kid," Matty said after a moment. "You know, he reminds me an awful lot of —"

"Don't." Eliot spoke through gritted teeth.

Matty sighed heavily. "It's been eight years, El. I don't think he —"

"Shut the fuck up, Ramirez."

Matty was silent for a few seconds before saying in a quiet, calm voice, "That's an awfully disrespectful way to address a general."

Eliot's head swirled with memories of that first meeting of the commanders — the tension in the room, Juan's cool collectedness, Pete's disrespect —

In an effort to force himself to think of something, anything, else, Eliot looked at Matty for the first time since he'd come over: he was beaming, which made him look, if possible, even more dashing than he already did in his sharp blue San Lorenzan dress uniform. The four stars signifying his newly-appointed rank of General shone brightly on his shoulders. That had been one of Michael Vittori's first acts as President — after, of course, declaring Rebecca Ibañez, his late fiancée, a national hero. And naming a girls' school after her. And announcing that her likeness would be printed on the new twenty-royal note. Matty had been the de facto leader of the San Lorenzan army for years; today, Mateo Ramirez was officially designated as Commanding General of the San Lorenzo Armed Forces and Special Military Adviser to the President.

And as much as it hurt to think about, Eliot couldn't help the tiny smile that formed on his face at the aptness and impeccable timing of Matty's reference. Matty hadn't used to be like that. That was always —

_"Who?"_ said the voice. _"Come on, El! You can't stop thinking about me — you have been ever since you got here. Why can't you just say my name, huh?"_

Eliot winced as the voice's words sliced at his heart, which seemed to throb at every beat now. He wondered just how much longer he could go on like this, how much more his heart could take …

"El?"

Eliot was grateful for Matty's presence right then; it helped draw him out of his own head and into the present reality. He forced himself to focus on Matty's furrowed brow, worried eyes, frowning mouth, and worked his way to the dress uniform. His gaze eventually settled on the four pewter stars he'd seen Parker take earlier in the evening and then put back at Hardison's insistence, without Matty even knowing they'd been missing.

He ordered his mouth to form something that at least resembled a smile and said, with all sincerity, "Congratulations, Matty."

Matty blinked as his concern melted into puzzlement. "What?"

Eliot rolled his eyes with only a little bit of effort, relieved at being able to escape his thoughts for even a little while. He kept the small smirk on his face. "Oh, I'm sorry. Congratulations, _General_. Or would you like me to salute, too?"

The mixture of confusion, embarrassment, and something close to shyness on Matty's face, combined with the man's stuttering reply, brought an actual smile to Eliot's lips.

"What? I wasn't — I just — I didn't mean …" Matty dropped his gaze as his cheeks flushed slightly.

"I'd like to remind you that I called this about nine years ago," Eliot continued, careful to keep his voice light and playful, as much for Matty as to keep away his own dark thoughts. "I distinctly remember telling you that you'd make a great general someday."

Matty nodded, still not meeting Eliot's gaze. A shy smirk formed on his face. "You did."

Eliot's genuine smile grew larger. He and the team dealt with creeps and arrogant bastards on a daily basis — and they'd just defeated one of the worst. In light of all that, Matty's humility was … refreshing.

"Congratulations, Matty," Eliot said, without a trace of irony or resentment. "You deserve it. Your father would be proud."

Matty's eyes snapped up to meet Eliot's, searching for any sign of derision or scorn. When they didn't find any, they widened slightly in mild surprise. In the next moment, his cheeks flushed a dark red, and he blinked quickly a few times before looking away again.

Eliot kept going, but not just for Matty; witnessing the man's reactions was starting to actually lighten Eliot's heart. "Berto, too. And your children, when they're old enough to understand."

When Matty looked up again, he swallowed a couple times, eyes shining.

_"Aren't you missing someone?"_ came the damn voice again.

"Juan's proud of you, too," Eliot added.

The voice was sing-songy now. _"That's not who I meant."_

Eliot's teeth clenched. It was with an enormous effort that he silenced the gunshots and screams that had resurfaced in his head and focused on Matty, who was stuttering again and had turned an impressive and almost unbelievable shade of crimson.

"El …" Matty rasped. "I —"

Eliot took a deep breath and prepared for the pain — less intense than the pain caused by what was in his head, but pain nonetheless — that would come with the following verbal admission. An admission that Matty needed to hear.

"Matty, I saw the look on his face when Vittori put those stars on you. His smile was even bigger than Maria's. He was crying like a proud …" The lump in his throat caused his voice to falter, but he forced out the word. "Father. … He loves you. He practically raised you. You're married to his only daughter, and you've given him three grandchildren. _You__'re_ his son." Eliot's voice broke on the last word. His eyes stung and he dropped his gaze. "I'm just a side project."

"You're kidding, right?" Matty's voice was soft and kind. He cleared his throat. "El, when you left — no, when you were threatened into leaving —" Eliot looked up in time to see Matty's eyes flash with anger. "He grieved. He nearly shut down again, just like he had when he lost Berto — his _actual_ son." Matty's tone soured, and he looked away again. "Trust me, _you_ were never a side project."

_"Shut down like with Berto? That's a bit melodramatic, Matty." _ If the voice had had eyes, it would have rolled them. _"Tell me you don't believe this, El. We all know you're not capable of eliciting a reaction of that magnitude."_

Eliot gritted his teeth. "Bullshit, Matty."

Matty's eyes flicked across Eliot's face before narrowing dangerously.

"Don't," Eliot snapped. "Just this afternoon, when I made that shitty joke about you jumping in front of bullets, I felt him tense next to me. Just like he used to —"

_"Maybe he still does," _said the voice. _"You've been gone a while."_

Eliot winced and continued. "— whenever anyone mentioned Berto. He can't even think about that day without hurting because he almost lost you to Moreau, too. Like Berto."

"Oh, please," Matty sneered. "You know how you used to call every once in a while? Well, whenever you did, it made his year. He wouldn't shut up about it. He didn't even care that you only called every few years. He'd go on and on about you, as if your mere existence made him proud. He's never talked about me like that, so don't try to make it sound as if you're not the closest thing he has to a son."

"Is there some reason he can't love you both?" Despite the softness of her voice, Maria's sudden appearance next to them made both Eliot and Matty start, glares and scowls evaporating.

_"So much for 'Commander Mode,'"_ the voice scoffed.

"Wow." Maria didn't sound impressed. "You were so busy bickering that neither of you — the only two men I've ever met who are impossible to sneak up on — heard a nine-month-pregnant woman approaching? You should both be ashamed of yourselves."

_"That's what I said!"_

"Here we are again," Maria continued. Her tone was soft, but not kind; firm, but not angry. She was … disappointed. "It never ends with you two, does it? Always arguing and focusing on the differences, never even trying to find common ground. Perpetually ready with a sneer or a caustic remark, and now you're hurling compliments at each other like insults, all in an attempt to, what? Prove that Papa loves the other one more so you can wallow in your own self-pity?"

She turned to Eliot. "Yes, he grieved when you left because he felt responsible for you. He's always loved you as a son, and Moreau took you from us — from _him_ — suddenly and without any warning. Just like Berto."

Although Eliot flushed with shame, he couldn't help the feeling of pure elation that flowed through him, a warmth that started in the pit of his stomach and spread all the way to the top of his head and the tips of his toes. Was that really true? Did Juan still love him, in spite of everything?

_"He did hug you long and hard down in the Tombs,"_ the voice said. _"And he called you 'Eliot, my boy.'"_

Eliot frowned. That wasn't what the voice had said at the time.

_"Well, that's not how you felt at the time,"_ the voice countered.

Maria had now turned to her husband. "When you were in the hospital after the Ribera shooting, there was a point when we were worried you wouldn't make it." She blinked back a few tears, but her voice was steady. "Mama told me — because Papa was always so strong in front of me — that he turned to her with tears in his eyes and said, 'I don't think I could survive losing another son, Ana.'"

Eliot was glad to see that Matty, too, looked abashed at Maria's comment. At the same time, hearing what Juan had said about Matty and seeing the dawning realization on Matty's face, rather than giving rise to a wave of jealousy and resentment as Eliot expected, actually had the opposite effect; something in his chest seemed to swell a little, and a hint of a smile formed on his lips.

But Maria turned back to him. "Eliot, he didn't care that he only heard from you once every few years. He loved hearing from you, period, because it meant you were alive and safe."

Had Juan worried about him all these years? His chest swelled a little more as the warmth continued to spread. Both were tempered by the chill of guilt — he should have called more often — but the fact that Juan hadn't cared about that, had only ever worried for his safety, caused the guilt to evaporate in an instant.

Maria was again talking to Matty. "When Michael pinned your stars on — Matty, I've never seen him look so proud. He's always known you would follow in your father's footsteps, and I know that today they both saw you fulfill your dream."

Matty smiled through tears before dropping his gaze to the floor and nodding.

Then Maria spoke to both of them. "It pains him to see the two of you argue like this, because he hates that both of you see the worst in yourselves when he has only ever seen the best. Do you understand that? He hates seeing you fight because it hurts _you_. But I'll ask this, and maybe it'll finally knock some sense into you: do you really think so little of _him_ that he doesn't have enough room in his heart for both of you? Do you honestly believe that he doesn't have enough love for two sons?"

Eliot looked at Matty, and their eyes met. They both loved Juan. What they thought or felt about each other was beside the point; their fighting was causing them to doubt — and hurt — Juan. And that was unacceptable.

"You heard his toast," Maria continued. "He's proud of his children. That means Berto, and me, and the two of you. Yes, Eliot, he was talking about you, too. He thought he'd never see you again, and here you are. You saved his life — again — and you helped us win back our country. He doesn't give a damn that you were gone for eight years, because it wasn't your fault. And you're back now."

The warmth had spread so much that it seemed to envelope Eliot like a blanket. His chest swelled until he thought it would burst. His vision blurred, and he leaned back against the pillar as the truth finally hit him like a freight train.

He was back in San Lorenzo; Juan, the team, Maria and Matty were all safe; and Moreau was finally gone. No longer would Eliot be forced into exile. There was nothing to keep him from staying here, with these people, with _Juan_, as long as he wanted.

It was all over.

_"It's not over," _said the voice. _"You're forgetting someone important."_

_Shut up and leave me alone!_

_"I won't! Not until —"_

"Will the two of you stop bickering?" Maria's voice was scolding, and it took Eliot a second to remember that she was addressing him and Matty, not him and the voice.

This was really starting to become a problem.

But Maria wasn't finished. "And you know …"

Eliot and Matty exchanged a glance at Maria's sly grin and reached a silent agreement: whatever came next would not be good for either of them.

"You never did hug it out like Hardison suggested."

Eliot's eyes widened; he had forgotten about Maria's mischievous side. "Yeah, that's not happening."

"Absolutely not," said Matty.

The twinkle in Maria's eyes was a little too dark to be playful — impish was a better description. "But you've made such progress today! A hug would just make it stick." Her smile was dangerous now. "Tell you what. You either do it now, in front of me, or I'll go up to the microphone and make you do it in front of everyone. Your choice."

Eliot looked at Matty, who confirmed what Eliot already knew: she wasn't bluffing.

"All right!" said Eliot through gritted teeth.

Matty sighed. "No pictures this time."

"Of course not!" Maria's sickly sweet tone only served to convince Eliot that Hardison would have a photo within the hour.

As the distance between the two of them closed, Eliot attempted to dispel his own awkwardness by thinking about the last time he and Matty had hugged. Just after Matty had introduced himself to the team. But before that?

"Oh for god's sake, it's just a hug," Maria murmured. "I'm not asking you to make out."

"Not helping!" Matty hissed.

They stretched out their arms but jerked back as they both went for the same side. Eliot tried to ignore Maria's not-quite-silent snickers.

Matty rolled his eyes, mumbled, "Let's just get it over with," and embraced Eliot.

Suddenly, the physical and emotional toll of the day — of the week, of the past eight years — finally overwhelmed Eliot, and he nearly collapsed into Matty's arms. He clutched the man tightly, eliciting a small _oof_ noise. Matty didn't seem to mind, though, because he pulled Eliot closer, and the two held each other for a few moments. But just as Eliot was starting to feel a sense of calm and control, he finally remembered the last time he'd hugged Matty, and the memory sent a chill through his veins.

.

.

.

Eliot took a deep breath and opened the door.

Matty's back was turned. He was straightening his tux in front of a mirror. Eliot met the gaze of his reflection.

"Gimme a sec." The reflection looked away.

Eliot had no idea what to do. Should he give a pep talk?

"Don't worry about it," said Matty. He was still looking in the mirror, but he wasn't meeting Eliot's eyes. "I'm fine. Just do like we did in rehearsal, and you'll be fine, too. Unless you lose the rings, it's impossible to mess up."

Eliot widened his eyes and pretended to search his pockets.

"Don't," Matty snapped. "I know what you're trying to do, but don't. I'm not in the mood."

"To laugh?" Eliot asked quietly. "It's your wedding day."

"Yeah, well, I imagined things being a bit different." Matty's voice gave out on the last word.

Eliot's chest ached. "I'm — is there anything I can do?"

"You've done enough." Matty's tone was frigid. It — and the words — sliced into Eliot's heart like an icicle, the chill surging through his veins until he had to suppress a shiver.

This wasn't his job. He shouldn't be here. Matty hated him — and he deserved it.

Matty turned around and, staring at the carpet, made a beeline for the door.

"Matty."

Eliot grabbed his arm. The other man's eyes snapped up, and Eliot saw only pain. Before Matty could do anything else, Eliot embraced him.

Eliot expected Matty to hit him, or shove him, or at the very least pull away, but he did none of those things. Instead, Matty pulled him close and buried his face in Eliot's shoulder.

Every beat of Eliot's heart was pure torment, and the nothingness in his chest threatened to overwhelm him. So he gripped Matty tighter and said, "I'm so sorry."

Matty sucked in a breath that was almost a sob. Eliot almost did, too, but he had a job to do. He'd made a promise, and he fully intended to keep it.

"Cut it out." His voice rasped. "It's your damn wedding day. This isn't what …" He cleared his throat. "Maria wants to see that dashing Ramirez smile. You're not going to disappoint her, are you?"

Matty pushed away, quickly brushing a hand over his face before walking back over to the mirror and straightening out his tux again. Then he raised his eyes to the ceiling and closed them tightly. He was silent for a few moments. Eliot had known Matty long enough to know why — he was praying. How someone like Matty could still believe in a god after everything he'd lost — after every_one _he'd lost — Eliot didn't know. Maybe Matty was praying to them. Maybe he was praying to —

Eliot shook his head. _Not today._ Today was about Matty and Maria.

Just then, Matty turned around and grinned. "Let's go get me married."

.

.

.

Eliot gripped Matty tightly and gasped, sucking in a breath that was almost a sob. He shuddered as a chill passed through him.

"El?"

As Matty pulled away far enough to look Eliot in the face, holding him by the arms like Juan always did, Eliot felt as if he was slowly being torn apart. He was shaking again. Hyperventilating.

"El, are you okay?" Matty's brow furrowed in concern, and he shot Maria a worried glance.

Eliot shrugged him off and passed a trembling hand over his face, leaning back against the pillar. "Fine," he managed to say.

The voice laughed long and hard. _"Who exactly do you think you're fooling? Even Parker knows you're full of shit when you say that."_

"Eliot, don't even try," said Maria. "I swear, you'd say you were fine if you lost a limb and blood was squirting out like that knight in Monty Python."

Eliot gathered himself enough to raise his head from the pillar and throw her an odd look. Even Matty raised an eyebrow and said, "Really? Monty Python?"

Maria shrugged. "Hardison mentioned it earlier. It was in my head."

Eliot silently thanked Hardison for the welcome distraction and faked a smirk. "You know, that movie was made like thirty-five years ago. Or don't you guys get modern television here in San Lorenzo?"

He actually chuckled at the glares Maria and Matty gave him.

The voice didn't sound too pleased, either. _"Seriously, it's not the Soviet Union."_

"Don't change the subject, Eliot," Maria scolded. "It's obvious you're not — ahh!" She cried out suddenly, clutching her belly.

Eliot was at her side immediately, but Matty was there first. In that moment, Eliot looked at Matty and saw his mask slip — a mask not unlike the one Eliot had carefully sculpted over the past decade — and he was able to see just how much Matty had truly aged in the past eight years. Matty wasn't even thirty years old, but a life of loss and grief; a decade of fighting the good fight and always coming up short; and a marriage filled with worry, threats, and dread in the shadow of Moreau had aged him so that his eyes looked to be those of a man twice his age. The mask was a perpetual brave soldier face, intended to hide his darkest thoughts and deepest fears from the ones he cared about most. But as that mask slipped, when Matty's most secret emotions were revealed, his eyes actually showed one thing more than any other: love. In that moment, Eliot saw the depth of affection Matty felt for Maria — a love so deep that after years of crafting such an elaborate façade, it all evaporated in an instant when Matty saw the woman he loved in pain.

For the first time in years — since he'd joined the team — Eliot's heart felt … hollow. It ached with a sense of emptiness and despair that nearly overwhelmed him.

The voice was soft and gentle. _"Do you think anyone will ever love you like that?"_

No. Never in a million years would anyone ever love Eliot as much as Matty loved Maria. For a fraction of a second, he grieved for himself, allowing the realization to wash over him like waves on a deserted beach. The void in his chest would never be filled, nor did it deserve to be; that was the cost of living a life like his.

But in the next moment, Eliot thought, _That__'s enough of that_, shoved those feelings down, deep down, into the darkest, loneliest recesses of his heart, and put on his own mask.

Matty's mask was back up, too, though he was unable to keep the anxiety and panic from his voice as he said, "Maria, honey …"

Maria took quick, shallow breaths, in and out, just like Eliot had seen pregnant women do in the movies, and the pain melted from her face. There were tears in her eyes, but she managed to smile and roll her eyes. "I'm fine. Just a contraction. Believe it or not, that's the first one today."

Matty looked at his watch. "Tell me when the next one starts."

"I said that was the only one today. It was a one-off, trust me." Maria turned to Eliot. "He acts like I've never done this before."

"Yes, well, last time was considerably less stressful." Matty's voice was strained.

"Was it, now?" Maria was still looking at Eliot, her lips pursed. "I think maybe we remember the last time differently."

Matty frowned. "Maria, the pregnancy was a cake walk and the labor lasted less than an hour."

Maria still didn't look at her husband, and her voice was chilly. "The pregnancy and labor weren't difficult. It was the first several months that weren't exactly a walk in the park."

Realization dawned on Matty's face at the same time it struck Eliot: Matty had been shot at Ribera's political rally when little Berto was only two weeks old.

But instead of flushing in shame at the memory, as Eliot had expected, Matty narrowed his eyes, and his jaw tightened. "Typical. We can't even have a talk about a contraction without it turning into something bigger."

"Oh yes, it's _my_ fault, as usual," snapped Maria, fixing Matty with a deadly glare.

Eliot's heart sank. He'd hoped Moreau's defeat would fix whatever was wrong with them.

"You're the one who made it about that, Maria."

"Please! I can't even have a damn contraction without you treating me like some sort of porcelain doll."

_"Are you going to stand by while Moreau destroys yet another family?" _the voice challenged. _"They don't deserve this. They're supposed to be the ones that get the happy ending. Are you really going to let him win this one?"_

"Dammit, Maria, I —"

"What the fuck is wrong with you two?" Eliot demanded.

Maria and Matty both froze and turned their heads slowly toward him.

Maria blinked. "Excuse me?"

Eliot scoffed. Was that a serious question? "The two of you have been fighting since I got here. How long has this been going on?" He hoped the answer was "a few weeks" and not, as he feared, "a few years."

"With all due respect, Eliot..." The words sounded almost like a threat as they somehow escaped through Matty's gritted teeth. "Our marriage is none of your damn business."

Eliot snorted this time, but only to keep himself from laughing at Matty's idea of "respect." "Nice try, but you don't get to take the high-ground on this one, Ramirez. You make it everyone's business when you fight in public like this. And this morning. And last night. And —"

Matty's voice was suddenly deadly calm. "You are _way _out of line. This is neither the time nor the place for —"

"It's never the time or the place, Matty," Maria said quietly.

Matty whirled around to face his wife. "What the hell does that mean?"

Maria sighed. "It means we're always fighting and never fixing anything."

"I was hoping to wait until after the babies came to —"

Maria's eyes flashed. "To what? Leave?"

Eliot watched as the accusation pierced through Matty's armor like an arrow, and his mask, that perpetual brave soldier face, shattered into a million pieces. His face contorted in pain, as if the arrow had continued through his armor and shot straight into his heart. His eyes filled with tears, and he took a step back, looking as if he might collapse from the blow.

Eliot was reminded of the look on Matty's face earlier in the day, after Maria had hung up on him. Then, Matty had feared dying without saying a proper goodbye. But this was a thousand times worse, as if, for Matty, the idea of being forced to live without Maria was a fate far worse than death.

"Is that —" Matty's voice, barely above a whisper, gave out before he could finish a thought. "You don't … I …" He looked away and squeezed his eyes shut as though hoping that this was all a nightmare from which he'd soon wake up.

After what seemed like an eternity, Matty's eyes snapped open and he sneered, like a viper preparing to strike. When he spoke his voice was drenched with a venom that Eliot knew all too well.

"I knew this would happen," he snarled. "I tried to warn you. I offered you an out, but you said no, you wanted me. But you were a naïve little girl who had no idea what being married to a soldier would be like. I should have known you wouldn't be strong enough."

Matty's fangs hit their mark. Maria's hands shot to her mouth, but they failed to keep in a sob. She shook her head slowly as her eyes filled with tears. A few fell, forming tracks down her cheeks; she wiped them away with one hand, but the tracks remained as more followed. Her other hand clutched at her chest, as though she was trying to squeeze the venom from her heart.

Eliot made a move to step between them. He needed to stop this. The wall that had protected his own heart for years had clearly proven ineffective — the team had been able to con their way in somehow — but the hollowness in his chest had to be good for something. Maybe it could absorb the arrows and venom they so freely flung; he'd gladly surrender what was left of his heart to keep them from destroying each other's.

_"Don't!"_ the voice snapped. _"This is isn't your fight."_

_But they__'re supposed to be the ones that make it …_

_"I know."_ The voice was so heavy with sadness that Eliot had to lean against the pillar to keep from collapsing under it.

"Matty, please." Both of Maria's hands were clasped at her chest now. "How can you think …? I love you!" she finished desperately.

"No you don't." Matty's voice trembled. Every word seemed to pain him. "You love who you wish I was. Someone who isn't a soldier." He looked away and whispered, "Someone who isn't me."

Maria's eyes widened. "That is not true! I —"

Matty's head snapped up to look at his wife. "No, Maria. If we're going to do this, let's do it. You're always trying to change me. I would never ask you to give up your campaigning, but you're constantly trying to get me to stop doing what I do. The only thing I'm really good at — what I love doing. Bitching at me in the hospital. Telling me things are too dangerous. Asking me to sit out today. Hell, you even had Eliot try to get me to sit out. _Eliot_, of all people!"

Eliot flushed with shame. He should never have gotten involved.

"Oh for god's sake, will you shut up about that?" Maria's voice raised a notch in both pitch and volume. "This isn't about Eliot. This is about us, and you accusing me of not loving you!"

"You were the one who just told me to leave!"

"I didn't tell you to leave, I asked if you were going to!" Maria took a shaky breath and continued more gently. "You're my _husband_. I love you —"

"Then stop trying to keep me from doing what I'm best at!"

"Jesus, Matty, if I really wanted to do that, I would have accepted Moreau's deal three years ago!"

As soon as the words were out, Maria gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth.

Matty's entire body tensed, his face darkening. "What deal?" he asked, voice deadly quiet.

Maria buried her face in her hands.

"Maria. What deal?" Matty took a step forward and crossed his arms, but his tone had softened slightly. He didn't sound quite as angry; he sounded as though he was in his own version of Commander Mode.

_Well, General Mode now,_ Eliot corrected himself before the voice could get a chance.

But whatever mode Matty was in, Eliot wasn't sure that interrogating his wife like a potential suspect was an improvement.

Maria seemed to take it as a small win, however, because she looked up at Matty and sighed in resignation. "When you were in the hospital, after the Ribera shooting … Moreau approached me with an offer."

Eliot wasn't surprised. Moreau often tried to take out his top enemies through bribery, blackmail, or coercion before anything else.

Matty didn't seem surprised either. "He approached you." It was a statement, not a question. His face was indecipherable now. "How?"

Maria rolled her eyes in frustration. "Does it matter?"

"It absolutely matters." Matty's tone was terse. "We were living in the safest building in San Lorenzo, surrounded by the best men serving under your father, and you were taking care of our infant son. How was he able to approach you?"

Guilt flashed across Maria's face. "I … went for a walk so I could think."

Matty's jaw tightened as he took a slow, deep breath and let it out quickly, almost like a sigh. "What happened?"

"I just went for a quick walk in town, to get some air," Maria explained. "I was exhausted and stressed about the new baby and worrying myself sick about what might happen if you —" Her voice gave out then, and she took a second to gather herself. When she spoke again, she did it quickly and matter-of-factly, although Eliot could tell it was with effort. "Chapman grabbed me from behind. He covered my mouth, pinned my arms to my side, and dragged me into an alley. Moreau stepped out of the shadows and said — well, he looked and sounded all sympathetic, talking about how I must have been so worried, seeing you get shot like that, and that you were in constant danger, and didn't I want you to be safe?"

There were tears in Maria's eyes now, but she kept going. Matty's face gave no indication of what he was thinking.

"He told me that this was just an example of what might happen if you stayed in the military. He — he said that if anyone could convince you to retire, it was me, and that if I did, he'd make it worth my while. He offered to make me president, to fund me and get the support and the votes, if you retired. Tried to convince me it was a win-win — you'd be safe and I'd be president."

She paused. Matty stood impassive as a statue, and just as solid. He may have been even tenser than before, but Eliot wasn't sure; he hadn't been paying much attention to Matty because he'd been focusing on not punching the pillar. The fact that Chapman had grabbed Maria had him shaking with rage. He wondered why Matty wasn't doing the same.

When Matty didn't respond, Maria continued. "He asked me if we had a deal. I spit in his face and told him to fuck off. Then I stepped on Chapman's foot and elbowed him in the solar plexus to get away from him. I kicked him in the balls and ran away. Moreau yelled, 'You'll regret saying no, Maria!' but I didn't stop running until I got back to the house. I cried on the porch for a while before going inside, and I didn't tell anyone what had happened."

Matty was silent and stoic for several moments after she finished. Maria looked nervous.

Finally, she said, "Matty, please say someth —"

"Did he hurt you?" Matty's face was still shielded by his mask, but his voice gave him away. It was laced with worry and quivered in anger.

Maria shook her head. "No. I —" Her face softened, and she gave Matty the tiniest of smiles. "I'm fine. The point is that it didn't matter to me that you retiring would have kept you safe or made me president. I don't care about that. I care about —"

"When was that?"

Maria frowned. "I told you, it was when you were still in the hospital."

Matty was back in General Interrogation Mode. "No, I mean _exactly_ when. How long had I been in the hospital?"

"It was two nights after you woke up, but you weren't out of the woods yet." Maria shook her head in confusion. "Why does it matter?"

Matty heaved a heavy sigh. He clenched his fists and said through gritted teeth, "Because the son of a bitch came to me first."

Again, Eliot was hardly surprised that Moreau had approached two of his main enemies in an attempt to turn them against each other. No, what bothered him was that Matty and Maria had been keeping these secrets from each other for three years. No wonder their marriage was on the verge of disintegrating.

Maria gave a small gasp. "He talked to you, too? When?"

"The day I woke up, after you'd gone home for the night." Matty tipped his head back and rubbed his face, running his hands through his hair before finally looking at his wife. "I was asleep — yes, I do listen when you tell me to rest," he added. "I was heavily drugged, but I heard someone shuffling next to the bed right before they flicked on the light. It was Moreau, sitting in the chair you'd sat in earlier. Chapman was on the other side, hovering next to my IV. I tried to move, but they must have been there for longer than I thought because I was restrained by those cuffs they put on the beds in case patients are dangerous or whatever. Moreau —" Matty chuckled bitterly. "He was such a smug bastard, talking about how it was a close call, but I did my job courageously, blah blah. He said that, 'given the circumstances'" — Matty made air quotes with his fingers — "he could easily convince Ribera to promote me to general — if I persuaded you to stop campaigning against him."

"And?" Maria asked breathlessly.

"And I told him exactly where he could stick that offer." As Matty spoke, he clenched his fists tighter and tighter and ground his teeth so hard Eliot was afraid they'd be reduced to dust before he got to the end of his story. "He asked if that was the drugs talking, because surely I wouldn't say such a thing while sober. He promised me that if you got out of politics, there'd be no more death threats and you'd be safe, and isn't that what I wanted? He said anything could happen when you were out giving speeches, it was like you were asking to be —"

Matty stopped and took a few deep breaths. His entire body was so tense that Eliot could see it vibrating. He looked like he was one word away from hitting something — Eliot had never seen him so angry, but he didn't blame Matty in the slightest. It was with an effort that he unclenched his own fists and forced his jaw to relax.

"I told the bastard to go to hell," Matty finally continued, though his body still radiated tension. "And because I was pretty high, I followed it with a fairly long string of bilingual obscenities. He got up, but just before he and Chapman left he turned around and said, 'If anything happens to her, you have only yourself to blame.'"

Matty's voice broke on the last word, and he looked at the floor, blinking rapidly and biting down on his lower lip.

Maria, eyes watery, one hand on her mouth, reached out to touch her husband's cheek.

"Oh my darling," she said softly, raising his chin until their eyes met. "Why didn't you tell me that?

Eliot's heart swelled at the tenderness in her voice. Maybe they were going to be okay after all.

"Because," said Matty thickly before clearing his throat. "I'd already scared the hell out of you once, and you bitched me out for it. I wasn't going to do it again. You had the baby to worry about. Although clearly I should have told you," he added darkly. "Maybe then you would have been more careful and not gone out wandering at night, alone."

Maria hand dropped from Matty's cheek to her side so fast it might have been made of lead. Her mouth became a short, thin line. "Yes, that's definitely why you should have told me, and not because, oh, I don't know, I'm your _wife_?"

Matty laughed mirthlessly. "And what makes you think you get to look down from the moral high ground? Why didn't you tell me he came to you? Do you have any idea how much danger you were in?' He gritted his teeth again. "You could have been killed, Maria!"

Eliot's stomach sank. Why did they insist on fighting?

"You were _actually_ almost killed, Matty. You needed to focus on getting better. And for the record, I only bitched you out to keep myself from falling apart."

"Yes, well, that was much better for me focusing on healing."

"It was either you being pissed at me for yelling or you blaming yourself for upsetting me, as if I didn't know exactly what I was getting into when I married a soldier. Never mind the fact that my father and brother were in the military." Maria's voice started to rise in volume. "You seem to harbor this guilt complex for bringing me into this world of yours, as if I was hoodwinked and didn't choose you of my own free will — as if I wasn't a part of it from the moment I was born! _That__'s_ why I didn't tell you about him coming to me — you didn't need to be even more worried on top of the shooting. You're always stressing about keeping me safe. I'm assuming that's why you never told me about those death threats you talked to Moreau about?"

Matty, whose face had softened some while Maria was talking, dropped his gaze at the last question. When he spoke, he didn't sound like Matty. He sounded like … a child.

"They weren't death threats, Maria," he whispered. "They were …" He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip again. "Much, much worse."

"Worse?" Maria asked with a shake of her head. "What could possibly be …" One hand covered her mouth as her eyes widened. "Chapman?" she whispered through her fingers.

Matty nodded, blinking rapidly at the floor before looking up at his wife. They exchanged a look of understanding and fear.

Eliot felt the bile rise in his throat as he imagined the type of threats Matty had received.

_"Chapman?"_ the voice hissed darkly. Eliot's eyes stung at the pain and anger in the voice, and he suddenly felt lightheaded.

Maria cleared her throat. "I don't care what the threats were. You should have told me."

"Maria, those threats gave _me_ nightmares." Matty's voice shook, and he looked several shades paler than normal. "I would never have exposed you to that."

"_Expose_ me? Matty, I'm a big girl. I know exactly what's at stake."

"Do you?" Matty snapped. "Are you prepared to die for this country, Maria?"

"Yes, I am!" Maria nearly shouted.

"Well I refuse to let that happen!" Matty shouted back. A few people nearby turned to look, and he lowered his voice. But since Matty didn't look at them and he was hoarse when he spoke next, Eliot wasn't sure if the two things were related. "I will _not_ lose someone else I care about to Damien fucking Moreau. He has taken too many people from me already. I refuse to stand by while he steals the one person in this world I love more than anything else."

Matty stopped, and Eliot's heart nearly ripped in two. Matty's body was no longer tense; in fact, he almost slouched. He looked exhausted. Beaten. His eyes were brimming with tears; a few streaked down his cheeks.

_"Matty never cries,"_ the voice whispered.

"Matty …" Maria whispered.

"You talk about me being worried and guilty and trying to protect you, like it's some sort of heroic, selfless act," Matty continued thickly. "But it's not. It's completely and utterly selfish. If something happened to you …" He sucked in a breath that was almost a sob. "I wouldn't know what to do. Anyone else, I could survive, but you … I will not let my children grow up without a mother, without _you_. I can't — I couldn't lose you. I'd be —"

The look in his eyes was one of such desperation and hopelessness that Eliot realized that Matty was one bullet, one car bomb, one single loss away from a void like the one in Eliot's own chest.

Then Matty stood up just a bit straighter. "That's why I fight. I do it to stop all of this. All the killing and the bloodshed. I do it for the people in this country, to keep them from suffering losses like I have. I do it for our children, so they don't grow up in a world like we did." He took a step forward and caressed Maria's cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. "And I do it for you, Maria. I do it because I refuse to let him, or anyone, take you from me."

Maria touched Matty's hand with hers, pressing her cheek against his palm as she closed her eyes. As Matty moved to embrace her, she used her other hand to push against his chest.

Her eyes snapped open, and Eliot saw that fire in them — the fire of Maria's determination and strength.

"You think I don't feel the same way about you?" she asked her husband. "You offered me an out, told me to find someone else who could make me happy. But I told you that _no. One. Else_" — she poked Matty in the chest with each word — "could make me happier. I wanted you, not someone I wished you were. And I told you I didn't care if we had a day, or a week, or a century. I was young and in love and a complete drama queen," she said, rolling her eyes with a small smile, which Matty returned. "But I meant it."

She leaned forward. "And I still do. That doesn't mean that I wouldn't fall apart if anything ever happened to you, or that I'll ever stop worrying about you. But you need to keep up your end of the bargain, Ramirez. I need to know that you're not going to throw your life away just because you can. I know that you're prepared to die for your country, just like your father. To die for _us._ But lately it's seemed like that's what you _want_. That —" She looked away, removing Matty's hand from her cheek and clutching it in both of hers. "That you love San Lorenzo more than you love us. Me. Berto." She placed both of her hands, and Matty's, on her belly.

Matty's face twisted in an anguish unlike any Eliot had ever seen there. It was the pain of an eleven-year-old boy, who'd lost both his parents in the span of a month, asking, _Why did my father love his country more than he loved me?_

"I don't," Matty choked. "I do this _for_ them."

"I know, darling," Maria said, caressing Matty's cheek. "And Berto would be proud to have a father who died a hero. But he'd much rather have you live for him … and so would I."

Her voice gave out on the last word, and her eyes, brimming with tears, suddenly widened.

"God, I can't lose you, Matty," she said, shaking her head. She was getting agitated. Her breathing became shallower, more rapid, and her tears started to flow down her cheeks and wouldn't stop.

"I need you, Matty. I've been trying to handle all of this — Papa's campaign, and Berto, and the pregnancy, and preparing for twins — _twins_, Matty!" Her voice was rising in pitch. "Then Papa was arrested, and then there was you, throwing your life around like it's nothing, so damn busy being a soldier that you forgot to be a father and husband!" She was speaking quickly, her voice getting higher. She was starting to sound hysterical. "And I couldn't talk to you about it because you just kept pushing me away or getting defensive whenever I told you how worried I was. It didn't matter what I did, whether I tried to keep you safe or tried to tell you how I felt — I was losing you, and I didn't know what to do! That's the only reason I tried to keep you from fighting today. We're supposed to save the country together, but we can't do that if one of us is dead!"

Suddenly she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands, sobbing. Matty's eyes widened in shock — and guilt.

_"Ah, guilt,"_ said the voice. _"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, El?"_

Eliot felt himself flush, followed by a guilty pang in his stomach.

The voice laughed. _"Are you seriously feeling guilty about feeling guilty? Or are you feeling guilty about Matty feeling guilty because you're convinced that this is all somehow your fault?"_

Eliot growled under his breath, but the voice just laughed.

Matty's flash of guilt seemed to have passed because he finally — _finally_ — wrapped his arms around his wife and rocked her as she sobbed into his chest.

"I can't do this alone, Matty! I need you. That's why I made Eliot talk to you today. I was so frightened I was going to lose you, I did anything I could to keep you safe! I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to change you, I swear."

"I'm — god, sweetheart, I'm so sorry." Matty closed his eyes and buried his face in Maria's dark, curly hair. "You don't have to keep all that in. You're not alone." He brushed his fingers through her hair and rocked her like a child. "Shhh … I'm here. I love you more than anything. You don't have to be so strong.

"I'm so sorry I made you feel like —" Maria sucked in a breath. "— I don't love you." She wiped her eyes and threw her arms around her husband. "God, I love you so much, Matty. And when you took that bullet for Ribera, it just made me love you even more, because that _is_ who you are. I was so proud of you, but that doesn't mean I wasn't scared out of my mind when I almost lost you."

Matty held his wife even more tightly. "I know. And I'm sorry we didn't talk about it. It would have made things easier … for both of us."

A flash of pain crossed Matty's face. It was a pain Eliot knew well — all soldiers did.

Maria and Matty stood holding each other for a long time. Eliot leaned against the pillar, watching. He felt like he should leave, but he had to make sure it was over. Were they better now? They had to be. If they weren't …

Maria sniffed and lifted her head from Matty's chest. She wiped her eyes and then looked in horror at where she'd been crying.

"Oh my god, I got snot all over your new uniform!" she exclaimed, wiping at the spot.

Matty laughed. "It's fine. No one's going to notice."

"They'd better not," Maria mumbled, although she continued to wipe at the wet spot. Then she straightened the insignias, pins, and medals on his jacket, working her way up. Matty let her, a vaguely amused expression on his face. She smoothed the jacket's shoulders and sleeves before making sure to touch — and straighten — every one of the four stars on each of his shoulders.

"Am I good?" Matty asked, smirking.

Maria shot him a glare and continued to smooth and straighten things for a few more seconds, although Eliot was pretty sure she was only doing it now because Matty had said something.

"There," she said finally, smiling up at her husband. "You're a general, Matty. You did it. I have never been more proud of you, and I've never loved you more than I do right now."

Matty took Maria's face in his hands and pulled her close — so close that their foreheads were touching — and said something. In Spanish.

_Maybe he doesn__'t use Spanish only for swearing_.

Matty spoke quietly and quickly, and Eliot's Spanish was rusty, so he only caught a few words. "… sorry … hurt … always … love you …"

_Then again, maybe he is swearing. _ Not curse words this time, but an oath — of love.

Matty finished by saying, "I love you more than …" Something.

Eliot frowned. His Spanish was quite rusty, and he hadn't heard San Lorenzan Spanish — which had its own unique metaphors and colloquial phrases — in eight years. He didn't recognize the last word. He'd have to look it up later.

But whatever it was, it made Maria smile. A huge, truly happy, loving smile, just like the one she'd worn on her wedding day. Then she took Matty's face in her hands and said, in Spanish, "I love y—"

Matty suddenly pulled her into a kiss. But before Eliot could decide what kind of kiss it was, Maria pushed her husband away. Matty's brow furrowed, and he looked as though Maria had slapped him.

Eliot's heart skipped a beat. They were okay … right?

Even if Maria hadn't spoken the next phrase in English, Eliot could have figured out what she was saying by the dark tone of her voice and the devilish twinkle in her eye. "I wasn't finished, Ramirez."

"Ah. Right." Matty failed miserably at hiding a grin. "Sorry. Got ahead of myself. Please continue."

Maria leaned in close and whispered something in Matty's ear. The grin faded, and he squeezed his eyes shut, nodding as he bit his lip and gripping Maria's hand tightly in his own. Then he beamed and turned to look at her.

His smile, like Maria's, was reminiscent of the one he'd worn on their wedding day, and he looked years younger. "So, am I allowed to —"

Before he could finish, Maria pulled him into a kiss.

_This_ kiss was what Eliot had remembered. It was the same kiss they'd shared on their wedding day, and when they'd gotten engaged, and when they'd first told each other how they felt. It was a kiss filled with a deep passion and love that Eliot had only ever seen in Maria and Matty's kisses. As if it was their first kiss, and their last. As if they were the only people in the world.

_"Damn,"_ said the voice softly. _"Don't you wish someone would kiss you like that?"_

The void in Eliot's chest loomed large once again, but Eliot refused to wallow in it this time. He forced a smile as he turned to leave. Matty and Maria would be fine. They deserved to be the only people in the world for a few moments.

But before he got far, a strong hand gripped his arm.

Matty grinned as Eliot tried to jerk away, and Maria said, in a dangerously sweet tone, "And where exactly do you think you're going, Eliot Spencer?"

"Away," he said, finally wrenching his arm clear of Matty's grip. "To give you some privacy."

Matty cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't seem so concerned with privacy when you were watching us fight."

"Yeah, well, somebody had to make sure it ended the right way, and you two obviously need adult supervision."

Matty and Maria exchanged ashamed looks.

"Listen, guys," Eliot sighed. "I know you love San Lorenzo, and you've spent most of your lives fighting for it. And I know that Juan essentially passed the torch to you — his children. And don't start," he added as Maria opened her mouth to speak. "You know as well as I do that he meant the two of you. I'm not going to be staying here and running the country for the next fifteen to twenty years. That's you guys. But the country's saved — you're welcome for that, by the way." He smirked.

"We're never going to hear the end of that, are we?" Maria rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"I highly doubt it," Matty grumbled. Eliot tried not to notice the tiniest hint of bitterness in his voice.

"San Lorenzo's in good hands for now," Eliot continued. "So maybe take a little bit of time while you can to just appreciate what you have. You've been married eight years, and you're obviously even more head over heels for each other than when I last saw you. And you have your family …"

A lump formed in Eliot's throat, and the void threatened to overwhelm him once again.

_Get it together, Spencer._

"Do you have any idea what I'd give to have what you have?"

His voice broke at the end, and he almost winced as the emptiness inside him seemed to spread like air being pumped into an inflated balloon, threatening to fill every part of him until his body exploded from the pressure.

He took a few deep breaths to regain some control and cleared his throat. "Just — just take some time and focus on what's important, okay?"

Maria and Matty both looked sufficiently abashed. Maria said quietly, "We will."

Matty met Eliot's eyes and nodded, conveying in a single look: _Thank you._

Eliot returned the nod: _You deserve it, Matty._

_"Aw!" _the voice exclaimed. _"You guys! You're so adorable!"_

Eliot nearly rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, Eliot," Maria said.

Matty chuckled. "Damn. Do Hardison and Parker know you're such a good matchmaker?"

The sudden pain that seared across Eliot's heart almost knocked him over. As it was, he winced and had to lean against the pillar for support as his vision blurred. The temperature in the ballroom felt as if it had skyrocketed. He needed to leave.

"Eliot," he heard Maria say. She touched his arm with one hand, and placed the other on his cheek. "You are not fine."

"I just need some air," he gasped.

Maria frowned. She asked gently, "Are you going to see him while you're here?"

_"Yeah, El. Are you?"_ pestered the voice.

"I — I don't know." His heart was pounding. He really needed to get out of this room.

Matty and Maria looked at each other and seemed to have a private conversation. Eliot wished they would leave.

"You should visit him," said Matty. "It would help you. And he'd like to see you."

Maria nodded. "We could go with you."

_No,_ Eliot thought. _If I did, it would be a private visit._

_"Yes. If you did, that would be the least you could do."_ The voice sounded annoyed.

He cleared his throat and forced a smirk. "No way. I'm not driving you guys out there just for your water to break. I will not deliver your babies on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, San Lorenzo."

"Aw, come on, El," Matty said with a grin. "It'd be fun. You and me, elbow deep in placenta …"

_"Ahh!"_ said the voice. _"Ew!"_

Very unwelcome images swarmed in Eliot's head. It wasn't until Matty and Maria laughed that he realized the voice's words were actually his own.

Thankfully, a commander in dress uniform came up and said, "Excuse me, General Ramirez?"

Maria beamed at the title, and the corners of Matty's lips quirked ever so slightly as he said in an official tone, "Yes, Commander?"

"President Vittori would like to speak with you."

"Lead the way, General Ramirez," Maria with a smile. She turned and pointed threateningly at Eliot before they left. "Don't leave. We'll be back soon."

"Yep, of course," Eliot lied.

He leaned against the pillar and watched them for a few minutes. They spoke with Vittori and a few others in the future cabinet, and then Matty excused them and led Maria to the dance floor. Eliot's heart lightened as he watched them embrace each other and begin to dance, although it looked a bit awkward because of Maria's large belly. Eliot felt a lump form in his throat when Maria laid her head on Matty's shoulder and closed her eyes. They both looked almost deliriously happy, as if an enormous weight had been lifted.

Now that he was alone, the wave of emotions that had been interrupted earlier washed over him completely. He nearly collapsed underneath the weight, leaning against the pillar for support. His heart pounded and his breaths were coming in gasps — he felt like he was drowning.

He scanned the ballroom, searching desperately for the only man he needed to talk to right now. The only man who could pull him to the surface and remind him how to swim. But when Eliot found him, he felt as though his only lifeline had been severed.

Juan was standing in a corner of the ballroom, deep in conversation with the absolute last person Eliot even wanted to think about right now — Nathan Ford. They each held a glass of amber liquid; scotch for Juan, Irish whiskey for Nate, if Eliot knew anything about either of them. Eliot could tell by their furrowed brows and grim expressions that they were engaged in a serious discussion.

_"They are _so_ talking about you,__" _the voice announced gleefully.

_Shut up!_

_"What exactly do you think they're talking about? How you killed all those guys in the warehouse last week, or how you relived it today when you heard the fake gunshots? Or both? Ooh, maybe they're talking about how you flipped out when you thought Sophie was dead because it reminded you of —"_

_Get the fuck out of my head!_ Eliot gripped his skull with both hands as if he could squeeze the voice out.

_"There's only one way to make that happen, El, and you know what it is."_

"I won't," Eliot said aloud.

_"Won't?"_ The voice sounded pained. _"Why? Don't you care about me?"_

"I can't." Eliot buried his face in his hands. "I'm not strong enough for that."

_"You're obviously not strong enough for this either," _the voice snapped.

Eliot released a frustrated growl. He needed to get out of here, but he couldn't leave yet. He still wasn't convinced it was completely safe — he wasn't sure he'd ever be convinced they were truly safe from Moreau. So he did the next best thing.

He headed to the bar.


	20. Chapter 20

_Thank you to everyone who's still reading! I'm sorry I've been gone for so long; real life gets in the way sometimes. I don't think I'll be able to post every week through the end (extra emotional/angsty chapters take a lot out of me), but I do plan to post every other week at the very least. Thank you again for sticking with me! I appreciate all of you more than you know!_

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Chapter 20

"Double shot of your strongest bourbon," Eliot said to the bartender as he settled onto the barstool farthest away from anyone. "Actually, make that two."

People were coming and going — getting drinks, chatting, returning to the tables or the dance floor. He'd chosen a seat where he could see the entire ballroom, but still be out of the way and inconspicuous.

_"Drinking isn't going to make me shut up, you know," _the voice said. _"So what exactly are you trying to accomplish?"_

Eliot tossed back one of the shots the bartender brought him.

_"You're not going to leave because of 'security reasons,'"_ — the air quotes were audible — _"but you won't stay sober because my mere presence is getting too close to your squishy insides? What a pickle … which is appropriate, since that's what you're doing to your brain — pickling it."_ The voice chuckled at its own joke.

Eliot growled and tossed back the second shot before flagging down the bartender and ordering a third. Then he turned so that he could lean his right side against the bar, but easily scan the room for any threats.

_"Well, I suppose it wouldn't be a San Lorenzo celebration if Moreau showed up and you _weren't _drunk off your ass."_

The bartender brought Eliot his third double shot, which he grabbed while scanning the room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a party. Matty and Maria were dancing, looking blissfully happy.

_ "You did that, El," _the voice said, almost … proudly._ "Nice job."_

Eliot frowned at the voice's sudden change in tone, but he decided not even to try to understand it and continued scanning the room. Two guards stood at every entrance, and dozens more peppered the crowd. They were holding drinks, pretending to chat, but, like Eliot, were clearly on high alert.

_You trained your people right, Matty._ Eliot's eyes flicked back to the man in question; upon closer inspection, he wasn't completely relaxed. He, too, was on high alert, scanning the crowd just like Eliot was.

_"Protect the principal, eh?"_ Eliot imagined the voice winking — whatever that looked like — and rolled his eyes. _"Only … who do you think is his principal right now?"_

"Maria," he muttered aloud.

The voice chuckled. _"Definitely."_

Eliot continued his visual sweep until his gaze fell on Nate and Juan, who were still deep in conversation.

_"They don't look angry,"_ the voice said softly. _"Just sad. No — disappointed."_

A knife sliced through Eliot's heart, and he downed the rest of his drink. Vision blurring, he turned his back to the two men he most feared disappointing.

"Another," he rasped to the bartender.

He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that hung behind the bar. It was the first time he'd looked in a mirror since the warehouse in D.C.

_"You look like shit,"_ the voice offered. _"When was the last time you got a full night's sleep?"_

But it wasn't lack of sleep.

A chill shot down Eliot's spine, accentuating the empty void in his chest as he stared in horror at the mirror. The man who glared back was frighteningly familiar. He was a man Eliot hadn't seen in almost ten years; a man he thought he'd buried long ago.

Moreau's Rottweiler.

He spun around on the barstool, away from the Rottweiler's dead eyes. That was a mistake. The sudden movement made him dizzy, and he had to place an arm on the bar to steady himself.

_"Maybe you should slow down on the booze a little."_

He growled at the voice — _"You know I'm right, El"_ — and started to scan the room again. He worked his way from left to right — all clear — and then to the opposite end of the bar and down it toward himself.

The final person he glimpsed, a few seats to his right as he faced away from the bar, was an elegant woman who, like him, sat away from the main thoroughfare. She was clad in a long dark dress — he couldn't tell, in the dimness of the ballroom, whether it was gray or black — and she was turned almost completely away from him as she watched the celebration so he could only see a quarter of her profile. Her hair was gathered under a black feathered hat, but flowed beautifully down the left side of her face, which was impossible to see under a thick, black veil — mourning, no doubt, the loss of San Lorenzo's brave and beautiful not-quite-First Lady Rebecca Ibañez. She was nursing a glass of red wine, though how she actually drank it through the veil Eliot had no idea.

He considered Hardison and Matty's earlier suggestion — maybe he should find a woman and take her back to the hotel.

_"She does look like she could use a friend."_ For some reason, Eliot imagined the voice wiggling its invisible eyebrows. _"And it _has_ been quite a while since you got laid."_

The bartender brought Eliot his fourth double shot of bourbon. Eliot picked it up but didn't drink it — the voice was right, he did need to slow down — and instead looked at the woman out of the corner of his eyes.

_"Damn, she is _hot_. Got any good pick-up lines?"_

He was forced to admit, again, that the voice was right. The woman was beautiful, and it had been far too long since he'd slept with anyone. Maybe this was what he needed to fill that gaping void in his chest.

He took a sip and tried to think of the best way to get the woman's attention.

"I'm flattered, darling, but you're really not my type."

Eliot choked on his bourbon as Sophie pulled up her veil and smiled her most infuriating and flirtatious grifter smile.

_"Agh!"_ the voice exclaimed. _ "Ew!"_

"Sophie," Eliot coughed. "I wasn't —"

"Although," Sophie continued, looking thoughtful. "Emotionally unavailable, tragic past, turns to alcohol to deal with his feelings …" Her smile morphed from flirtatious to provocative in an instant, and Eliot's eyes widened. "Maybe you are."

In spite of his inability to breathe without coughing, as well as his decision to slow down, Eliot tossed back his bourbon.

"Soph —"

"Eliot," she said seductively. Suddenly she was right next to him, invading his personal space. "Remember that night at the museum in Boston? Something might have happened between us then, if we hadn't been so distracted by that dagger."

_"Something might have happened … with a dagger?"_ Eliot imagined a cocked eyebrow. _"Is that a euphemism?"_

Eliot cringed, and Sophie chuckled as she pulled away. "Yes, it would have been nice if Hardison had kept his mouth shut about that. But I suppose we both deserved it, taking credit where credit wasn't due."

"You need to get laid, sweetheart." Eliot had finally found his voice. "You've been like this since we got here. With the thing about the puppy …"

_"Ugh."_ The voice wrinkled its imaginary nose now. _"You two have a weird relationship."_

Eliot tried — in vain, as always — to block out the voice. "And don't think I didn't see you checking out Matty."

Sophie's amused smirk, which had appeared at the mention of the puppy, transformed into an almost lecherous grin as her gaze turned to the dance floor. "Ah, yes, General Ramirez."

With something bordering on disgust, Eliot turned back to the bar — avoiding the cold stare of the Rottweiler — and after a moment's consideration, ordered a beer. Something he could nurse, but that wouldn't render him completely unable to walk.

Maybe it was the booze, or the stress of the day — _"I think you mean the stress of the past eight years, El"_ — or the _nagging_ voice in his head, or the fact that Matty and Maria finally looked happy again, but Sophie leering at Matty pissed Eliot off. So he took a sip of his beer and said, "Then again, we all know you have a weakness for married men."

That got Sophie's attention. She blinked a few times, but her grifter smile was back in an instant. "Yes. And your weakness is vapid, well-endowed, lacking in self-confidence, and nameless." Her eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm frankly surprised you even considered me."

Something in his chest twinged at the jibe. "Yeah, well, it's dark, and this place ain't exactly crawling with single women."

Eliot took a swig of his beer; the Rottweiler scowled at him from the mirror. Contrary to what the team seemed to think, Sophie had just described _his_ type, not Eliot's; _he_ never had trouble picking up women, single or not, paid or no. The four double shots all seemed to hit Eliot at once, and a wave of nausea washed over him. He buried his face in his hands.

_"Why are you still here again?" _asked the voice. _"Oh, right. 'Security.'"_

Eliot spun to face Sophie — too quickly, given his state. "You shouldn't even be here. What if someone recognizes you?"

"Darling, you didn't even recognize me," Sophie cooed. "And I wanted to see the celebration." She turned away and cast a longing gaze over the ballroom. "Don't cry for me, San Lorenzo …"

The voice snorted. _"She, Nate, and Matty should get together and have a melodrama party."_

Eliot rolled his eyes and returned to his beer. Slow sips. Much to his surprise, it had a calming effect on both his stomach and his nerves.

Suddenly, Sophie snapped from her stupor and excitedly invaded Eliot's personal space again, causing him to jerk back. "Did you hear about the twenty-royal note?"

"Yeah, and the girls' school." He sighed. "Seriously, Soph, you shouldn't be here. It's dangerous. So why don't you go so I can try to pick up someone who's a little more my type?"

Sophie settled back onto her stool. "Because that's not what you need right now." Her tone was gentle.

Eliot scoffed. "You have no idea what I need."

"I didn't say that I did. But I know that you _don't_ need to take some stranger back to a hotel room. If you did, you'd have done it by now. Instead you're sitting at the bar, drinking. Why?"

"I'm celebrating."

The voice laughed. _"That's what you're going with? To the best grifter in the world?"_

"Ah, yes, of course," said Sophie. "Nothing like celebrating alone in a room full of people who, it just so happens, are celebrating the same thing."

Eliot said nothing. Maybe if he didn't respond, she'd go away.

_"Fat chance," _said the voice.

"You know, even Nate is drinking and talking with other people right now." She said this as if it was a miracle, which Eliot supposed it was. "But what I don't understand is," she continued, "if you want to be alone, why not just leave?"

Eliot tensed, but stared intently at his beer. "Because I can't."

So much for not responding.

Sophie let out a small sigh. "Yes, you can. He's gone."

Eliot's grip on his beer glass tightened. She didn't get it.

"Eliot, he's in the Tombs. Matty put him there personally. Only one way in or out, remember?"

"Steam vents," Eliot said flatly.

"Which you insisted that Matty have sealed up before the inauguration," she said. "And I'm sure you asked him about it. Did he do it?"

Of course Matty had done it. But that was beside the point. "You think a little steam vent and some bars are going to hold Damien Moreau?"

"If they don't, Nate's con will. Have any of Nate's marks ever recovered from his elaborate and personalized punishments?"

_"Personalized punishments?" _the voice asked. _"Who does that sound like?"_

The Rottweiler.

"Moreau isn't just anyone, Sophie." Why couldn't she see this? "He has people —"

"We've taken them down."

"He has money —"

"Not anymore."

_"What else is there, El?"_

"Dammit, Sophie!" Eliot slammed his hand on the bar. "Damien Moreau is never finished!"

A few heads turned at his outburst, so he returned his gaze to his beer as he took another large swig. The glass shook in his hand.

"Yes, he is, Eliot." Sophie placed a gentle hand on his arm.

He jerked it away. "Don't touch me," he snarled.

"Why not?" She seemed unfazed by his reaction. "Are you afraid you'll lose control again? Think another con is real?"

Eliot's jaw clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Eliot." Sophie touched his arm again, and he flinched. "You thought I was dead, didn't you?"

"I don't —" Eliot stuttered. His heart was pounding.

"You're not that great a grifter, Eliot. You might have fooled Parker and Hardison, but I had a front row seat." She put her other hand on his shoulder. He jerked away, but she didn't let go. "Eliot, I saw real grief — and guilt. I've never seen you fall apart like that."

Beer moistened Eliot's hand as the glass cracked slightly. He gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might do the same. "I think you should go now."

_"Is that really what you want?"_ the voice asked.

"That's not what you need," said Sophie.

The room was too hot. Eliot was dizzy. He had trouble breathing.

"Please, go," he rasped.

"Eliot, look at me," Sophie ordered, her voice firm.

He was so surprised at her change in tone that he did what she said. When he met her gaze, she said, "I am not dead."

"I know." He attempted to roll his eyes, but she grabbed his chin with and forced him to look at her.

"I am not dead, Eliot. I am safe. Nate is safe. Parker and Hardison are safe."

Eliot's eyes stung as the truth started to sink in: he had successfully protected his team. They were all alive and unharmed.

"We're all safe, Eliot. Juan and Anita are safe. Matty, Maria, and their little boy are safe."

Eliot nodded, his throat burning. He'd saved the Floreses, too. Juan was out of prison, reunited with his wife and family. Matty and Maria were happy, and their children, especially little Berto, would grow up knowing both of their parents.

"We are all safe, and Damien Moreau is finished. He cannot hurt anyone again."

_"He's done, El. You did it."_

Eliot's vision blurred, and he brought a shaking hand to his face. Moreau … he was finally gone.

"Come here, darling."

Sophie opened her arms, and Eliot collapsed into them. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. He never wanted her to let go.

They were all safe. Moreau was done. San Lorenzo was free.

They'd done it.

He wrapped his arms around her, too, and thanked anyone who might be listening that she was alive. That they all were alive. He buried his face in her shoulder and let out a strangled sob. He didn't cry — he wasn't capable of crying anymore, and hadn't been for a long time — but somehow being held by her, by someone, released the pressure that had been building up inside him for months.

Sophie stroked his hair, and rubbed his back, and suddenly he was a kid again, just come home from his first fight at school, crying in his mother's arms.

_"It's okay, baby," his mother said in her Southern lilt. "You're okay. Everything's gonna be just fine."_

"It's okay, darling," Sophie said in her English lilt. "We did it. Everyone's all right. You kept us all safe."

He stayed there in her arms while she said all manner of comforting things to him, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, until his breathing slowed; his heartbeat returned to normal; the pressure was all released. Dry sobs wracked his body, but she held him until he finally relaxed. She didn't let go until he did.

After what felt like an eternity, he pushed away. He sat in stupefied silence as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

The voice asked, _"Did you just cry in Sophie's arms like a little boy?"_

Eliot felt himself flush. He turned away and gulped down his beer. He had just broken down completely, right here, in the middle of a ballroom full of people. In front of Sophie, the nosiest, most gossipy woman he knew. What did she think of him now? He'd never be able to look her in the eyes again.

_"Add her to the list,"_ the voice said. _"Hey, do you think she'll tell Nate first?"_

Eliot buried his face in his hands.

"You have no need to feel embarrassed, Eliot," said Sophie. "I promise this will stay between you and me."

_"Whoa."_ The voice was filled with awe. _"Can she hear me?"_

Eliot attempted to growl at the voice, but it came out more like a cross between a cough and a grunt.

Sophie placed her hand on his arm again. "So what are you going to do?"

"What the hell does that mean?" he snapped.

_"Well, there is this one huge thing on your to-do list, El. Maybe you could —"_

"Leave me alone!" Eliot nearly shouted, hands over his ears, as if he could shut the voice out.

Sophie removed her hand and finally put some space between the two of them, but Eliot still felt like he was suffocating.

"I was only asking if you were going to continue drinking or go back to the hotel to get some rest." Sophie's voice sounded light, but Eliot felt the tension radiating off of her.

He'd scared her. He caught sight of the Rottweiler again and felt a surge of self-loathing course through him.

"M'sorry," he rasped. He downed the rest of his beer and ordered another. "I'm just tired."

"Well." Sophie relaxed slightly and took a casual sip from the wine glass in front of her. "That answers the question I asked and several that I didn't."

_"That's not cryptic at all,"_ the voice chimed in.

Eliot clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. He was reaching the end of his rope with that damned voice in his head.

It was with an effort that he forced his fist to unclench in order to grab the new — and uncracked — glass the bartender brought. When he raised it to his lips, his hand shook so hard he spilled beer on himself.

Sophie grabbed some napkins and handed a few to him before dabbing the bar.

_"And now she's cleaning up after you. She _is _like your mom!"_

With something disturbingly close to a whimper, Eliot leaned forward, dropping his head onto his forearms, which rested on the bar.

He was losing it. What was wrong with him?

"Eliot." Sophie's voice was gentle again. "There's something more. Something else that's been bothering you since you returned to San Lorenzo. And please," she added, rolling her eyes, "at least do me the courtesy of not attempting to lie to me. I'm a grifter. This is what I do. And it hasn't been difficult to figure out what's going on."

Eliot jerked his head up — too quickly, he realized too late. His heart started to pound again, and his head followed, throbbing with every beat. How could she know?

_"Maybe Juan told her. Or Maria — they've been pretty close lately …"_

No. They wouldn't … would they?

"There's an elephant in the room, Eliot. I saw it when you talked to Maria for the first time in eight years. I felt it in the tension last night when you and Matty nearly ripped each other's heads off. I even see it when you look at Juan."

Eliot started to chug his beer. He couldn't talk about this. Not now.

_"Then when?"_

"I think maybe it's time for you to go now." He wasn't sure who he was talking to, Sophie or the voice.

_"I'm not going anywhere."_

"Okay," Sophie said. "But before I leave, I have one last question for you. A few days ago you told us about Matty and Maria's wedding, and you getting a call when you were drinking at the bar. How you met Moreau, drunk and in half a tux, and he made you an offer. You agreed to leave San Lorenzo if he agreed to leave the Floreses alone."

"I haven't heard a question yet." Eliot felt so light-headed he was worried he might pass out.

"You explained everything but this: why were you drunk?"

_"Ding ding ding! That, folks, is the million dollar question!"_

When Eliot spoke, he struggled to keep his voice steady. "It was a wedding. Everyone was drunk."

The voice laughed. _"Is that the best you can do?"_

Sophie gave the smallest of smiles — she wasn't buying it either. "But you said you were at the bar working through almost an entire bottle of whiskey — alone. You even turned down a beautiful woman who was throwing herself at you. That doesn't sound like you."

Eliot was close to hyperventilating now. "Please, Sophie … don't —"

"I think that whatever it was that caused you to drink then is the same thing that has you drinking alone at the bar right now." She leaned in toward him, and he backed away. He needed air. "You've been suffering for eight years. You were able to keep it at bay when you left, but returning has caused you to face it again, and it's killing you. So much so that you believed that a con was real, and I was actually dead."

She reached to touch his arm again. He flinched away.

"Whatever it is, you need to face it, Eliot."

He buried his face in his arms again. "I can't ... it hurts too much."

"I know, but does it hurt more than this?"

_Yes_. "I hate this country. I never wanted to come back here."

_"Never?"_ The voice sounded upset. _"You hate it that much?"_

"It's too painful," Eliot said. "I can't ... I don't want to remember ..."

_"You don't … want to remember?"_ Pete's voice asked tearfully — and it _was _Pete. No matter how hard Eliot tried to distance himself by pretending he was just "the voice," or trying to ignore him, or pushing him and the memories away, it had been Pete's voice from the beginning. He hadn't heard that voice in eight years. And it sliced at his heart every damned time.

_"El," _Pete said in his mind. _"Is that how you really feel? That it's — that it's so painful you don't want to remember any of it? Even the good things?"_ Pete's voice cracked. Was he ... crying? In Eliot's mind?

"No, I just ... I can't ... It hurts too much."

"I know, darling." Sophie's tone was soft as she rubbed Eliot's back.

Pete let out a small sob. _"I don't want to be forgotten, El. You're my best friend. I haven't forgotten you."_

"I know," Eliot rasped. "I don't want to forget ..."

_"Then don't. Before you leave ... come see me. Please?"_

"You don't have to forget, Eliot," Sophie cooed. "And you shouldn't. You can face the bad memories, and when you do, they won't be so bad."

_"Please, El ... I don't want to be a bad memory. I only have good memories of you. You're my best friend."_

"But the bad memories ..." Eliot gasped for air, like a sob. "They make the good ones bad, too."

"They don't have to." Sophie and Pete spoke at the same time.

_"You saved me, El,"_ Pete continued, his voice thick._ "You made me happy. Don't shut down. You promised ..."_

Sophie grabbed Eliot by the upper arms, like Juan always did. Her hands were gentle, but firm; her eyes sad, but kind and understanding — like Juan.

"Eliot," she said. "Do not run away from this. You've been given a second chance. Eight years ago, you closed up in order to survive, but you don't have to anymore. Moreau is gone, and you have the chance now to make things right. So you have a choice: you can run away from it all, bury the memories deep, hide from your past — and hope that you can keep it from rising to the surface again. But you'd be exiling yourself this time; you could never come back, or the memories would, too. Or, you can face and embrace the memories, the good and the bad, and return to the relationships and the people you care about, and who so clearly care about you."

She looked over at Matty and Maria, who were still dancing, and Eliot followed her gaze. His heart lifted a little when he saw them.

"You did that, you know. I saw it; whatever you said fixed what was wrong with them."

_"You did, El,"_saidPete, and Eliot could hear a smile in his voice. _"You helped them to see how much they love each other. Again."_

_Again_. Eliot's heart ached as he remembered matchmaking eight years ago. But at the same time, he felt a burst of pride, of happiness for them.

"Do you think you could leave them again?" Sophie asked. "Or Juan?"

They both looked over at the General, who was talking with President Vittori, looking happier than Eliot had ever seen him.

"He loves you," Sophie whispered. "I could hear it in his voice over the earbuds. I saw it when he gave his toast — he called you one of his children. And he's been keeping an eye on you all night. He's worried about you."

_One of his children. … He loves you._ Eliot's chest swelled at the thought. He'd missed Juan so much these past eight years. Did Juan really still love him, after all that time? Eliot's vision blurred; he had such a hard time believing anyone could ever love him.

Sophie rubbed Eliot's arm, up and down, and the gesture was comforting. Calming. "Do you think you can leave them all behind again? Could you handle that pain? Could they?"

_"It hurts us, too," _Pete said._ "When you leave. The last time you had to. But you don't have to this time."_

"The Eliot Spencer I know never runs away from a fight," said Sophie. "No matter how much it will hurt."

But running was so much easier. Staying always broke his heart in the end.

_"Please don't run, El."_ Pete sounded desperate._ "Don't forget me. Not again."_

The words hit Eliot like a punch in the gut. _I've never forgotten you, Pete._

_"Then prove it. Come see me. Please."_

Eliot could never say no to Pete.

"All right," he croaked. "I'll do it."

_"Really?" _Pete sniffed, and Eliot pictured him wiping his eyes. _"You'll go?"_

"I'll go," Eliot said. "For you."

"Do it for yourself, not for me," Sophie said.

_"He wasn't talking to you, Sophie!"_

Eliot couldn't help a tiny smile. That last part sounded like the Pete he knew — funny, playful, and fiercely protective of his friends.

He turned to his beer; he took a drink, and it tasted wonderful — San Lorenzo always did have good beer. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He dreaded what would come with visiting Pete, but just making a decision seemed to lighten his … everything. His heart, his mood, his spirits, even his body — every part of him felt about a hundred times less tense.

"While you're making decisions," said Sophie, her eyes twinkling, "could you promise me you won't run away from us, either?"

"Wha —?" Eliot choked on his beer.

_"Yeah, Sophie!"_ Pete laughed, and it was a happy one — not sarcastic, or mocking. _"Go big or go home!"_

"I know you're thinking about leaving after this." For the first time, Sophie didn't look at him as she spoke. She was suddenly very interested in her wine glass. "I hope you know by now that we don't care about what you did in the past. We love you in spite of all that. You're not that man anymore."

The weight fell back onto his shoulders. "Yes I am," he whispered. "Don't you get it? I'll always be that man." He glanced in the mirror. "I'll always be Eliot Spencer, Damien Moreau's Rottweiler."

"It's true." Sophie fiddled with the stem of her glass and seemed to be addressing the wine rather than Eliot. "Our past never leaves us. It's always there, haunting us, and casting a shadow over all our present and future actions. But that's the wonderful thing about love in a family like ours. It's unconditional. And you can't run from that. Trust me, I tried." She looked at him and smiled faintly. "And I failed miserably."

For once, Eliot was speechless. Sophie never talked about the time she was gone, or why she'd come back. He'd always assumed it was to save their asses from Nate's insane plans. But maybe that was only part of it. She'd left to find herself, and maybe she had — and it brought her right back where she'd started.

He shivered. It was different with him. After the warehouse … no amount of "unconditional love" could fix that.

"The Eliot Spencer who used to work for Damien Moreau is still a part of you, and it always will be." She turned to face him, and her eyes bored into him again. "But I know the Eliot Spencer who works with _us_. I know you've been helping people for three years now. I know that you enjoy it, even if you try your hardest to pretend you don't. I know that you love to cook, and that your food is some of the best I've ever tasted in my life. I know that you can sing like an angel, but doing it in front of people makes you nervous. I know that you get so easily annoyed by Parker's antics, Hardison's chatter, Nate's drinking, and my nagging" — she tilted her head with an acknowledging smirk — "but you'd risk your life in an instant to keep us safe. I know that you've done so on countless occasions — including today. I know that your loyalty and love are next to impossible to earn, but once they are, nothing in the world can break them — not betrayal by a friend" — she flushed, looking at the floor.

She cleared her throat and continued. "Or an eight-year absence." She looked out across the ballroom where Matty, Maria, and Juan were talking. Then she turned to meet his eyes again.

"I know that you have a dark past that haunts you, one that you try to hide from everyone — even yourself. I know that you're one of my dearest friends, Eliot. And I'm begging you. Please, don't run from us."

After a moment, she turned and finished her glass of wine, then asked the bartender for another.

Eliot sat in stunned silence. He'd never heard Sophie speak so … honestly.

_"She's right, El."_ Pete, apparently, wasn't satisfied with merely his own victory. _ "Why do you always run away? For the best hitter in the business, you're pretty cowardly when it comes to the people you care about."_

Eliot winced. It was the second time today someone had called him a coward. In his eyes, it was the worst thing anyone could ever call him.

"Have you talked to him yet?" Sophie asked.

The question startled Eliot from his reverie. "Pete? Not yet."

Sophie looked surprised. "Who's Pete?"

"What?" Eliot's eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said. "Nobody."

_"Nobody?"_ Pete's voice cracked. _"El, I thought —"_

Eliot shook his head roughly. "Just — no! What?"

Sophie frowned. "I said, have you talked to him yet?"

"No." Eliot sighed heavily. "I haven't talked to Nate about anything, okay? I can't even look him in the eyes right now."

Sophie cocked an eyebrow. "That's not who I meant …"

Pete chuckled. _"Oh man, you are losing it!"_

Eliot growled.

"Do you need to talk to Nate?" Sophie asked. "Why can't you look him in the eyes?"

Then she shook her head and took another sip of wine. She looked a little sad. "You don't have to answer that. But you should look him in the eyes. I think you'll be surprised by what you find there."

Eliot sighed. No, he wouldn't. He'd see disappointment — just like he'd seen in his father's eyes when he left home, or in Juan's eyes when he left San Lorenzo. He always disappointed, eventually. And this time he hadn't even had to leave.

But wait … "If you weren't talking about Nate, who were you … ?" Eliot's eyes widened in realization. "No. No way. Absolutely not. I have nothing to say to _him_."

"You don't?" Sophie raised both her eyebrows this time. "Somehow I don't believe that. You haven't spoken with him in eight years, except at that hotel in D.C. He made you into the man you are today."

"No," Eliot practically snapped. "He didn't. Juan did that. You guys did that."

Sophie sipped her wine thoughtfully. "And without Moreau, there would be no Juan, and no us." She paused a moment, then looked at him. "Eliot, every choice we make affects our future in ways we don't understand, and maybe never will. What you did for him, and what you decided not to do, made you into _our_ Eliot."

"So what?" Eliot said through gritted teeth. "I should send him a thank-you note?"

Pete laughed. _"Just like a good Southern gentleman!"_

"Why don't you just tell him how you feel?"

_"Oh man!"_ Pete was still laughing._ "I can just see it now!"_

"Soph, I wouldn't even know what to say to him."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something." She smiled. "Bartender, another shot of bourbon for my friend here. For courage," she added to Eliot. "Do it now before you think about it too much. You'll find the words."

Then she stood, kissed Eliot on the cheek, and waltzed away, disappearing into the crowd.

Eliot blinked after her. Talk to Moreau? Why?

_"Closure. Same reason you need to see me."_

A terrible feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. Did he have to?

_"'Course not," _said Pete. _"But this is your chance, while everyone's busy."_

Eliot scanned the ballroom and found Matty, his arm around Maria, laughing with Juan and Vittori.

"Shot of bourbon, neat," the bartender announced, placing a glass in front of Eliot.

Eliot looked at it, then out again at Matty.

_"Do it now. You'll regret it if you don't."_

Eliot took a deep breath. Then he tossed back the drink and made a beeline for the exit, toward the Tombs.

_Before I change my mind._


	21. Chapter 21

_Thank you so much to everyone who has read and/or reviewed! You guys keep me going. Again, I'm sorry it's been so long. I'm still working, I swear, but I can only spend so long in poor Eliot's head at a time, so it's taking longer than expected. Thank you for bearing with me, and I promise you the end is near(ish)!_

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Chapter 21

Eliot sped across the ballroom, weaving expertly in and out of the crowd. He gave a curt nod to the guards at the door and, after making sure they weren't watching him, headed down the stairs toward the Tombs.

He exited the stairwell into the hallway thirteen seconds later. It dumped him out right next to the closet he, Hardison, and Matty had hidden in that afternoon.

Had it really been only a few hours earlier that they'd bantered while beating up the guards and putting on their gear? It seemed like weeks ago.

_"My question is, how in the hell did it take Hardison ten minutes to get here from that conference room upstairs?"_ Pete asked.

Eliot rolled his eyes and grumbled, "It's Hardison. Unless it's on a screen, he has issues."

He peered around a corner, down the hallway, toward the entrance to the Tombs. There were four uniformed, armed men standing guard at the elevator. They were clearly bored, but vigilant.

Four guys? _Not bad, Matty._

_"So, do you think these guys are here because they're the best, or because they're being punished and aren't allowed to be at the party?"_ asked Pete.

Knowing Matty, it was probably the former. At least that's what Eliot hoped.

_"But won't that just make this harder?"_

It would. But Eliot had an idea.

He stepped out from his hiding place and into their line of sight, but otherwise made no move toward or away from them. This was a test of their reaction time.

It took less than a second for all four men to pull their guns on him. Two positioned themselves in front of the elevator doors, blocking the entrance with their bodies. The other two advanced on Eliot. The closest one shouted, "Stop and put your hands in the air!"

Eliot did as he was told.

_Not bad at all, Matty._

"Hey," he said slowly. "Cool it. I'm just walking. Not even armed."

He took a step toward them. Another test.

All four men tensed. The same man who spoke before yelled, "I said freeze!" and took another two steps in Eliot's direction.

_Very good. Step 1: Keep the suspect engaged. Step 2 —_

One of the men in front of the elevator reached for his radio.

While that was exactly what the guards should do, it was the opposite of what Eliot wanted. The last thing he needed was them calling for backup and the entire ballroom full of San Lorenzo military — Matty for sure, probably Juan, too, and Nate, Sophie and Maria would come just to see what was going on — racing downstairs to find Eliot incapacitated because he had refused to fight back against four good men doing their job. All because Sophie had urged him into a final private chat with Moreau.

So he said the only thing that might actually stop them from calling in the cavalry.

"General Ramirez sent me."

The man reaching for his radio froze and exchanged a look with his partner at the doors. The two men nearest Eliot also exchanged a look. Well, that wasn't true. The guard who hadn't spoken looked at the one who had. That one — who, Eliot recognized from the insignia on his uniform, was a full commander — never took his eyes off Eliot. In fact, they narrowed suspiciously at Eliot's comment.

"Who are you?"

For the second time in as many weeks, Eliot played his trump card.

"I'm Eliot Spencer."

Recognition flashed across the faces of all four men, followed by varying degrees of surprise and not a small amount of —

_"Did they all just stand up a little straighter?"_ Pete sounded as incredulous as Eliot felt. _"Like they would if the General walked in?"_

Yes. Unlike when Eliot had name-dropped at the hotel in D.C., fear was not the base emotion for these men. It didn't even look like it had crossed their minds. Their gut reaction, after the initial astonishment, was respect. And not a grudging, fearful respect. This was almost reverential, as if they were in the presence of … well, someone like Juan.

What the hell had the Floreses been telling people about him for the past eight years?

"So it's true." The guard who had reached for his radio was awestruck. "He is back."

_"What are you, some kind of legend?"_ Pete asked.

The two silent guards nodded like they were in some sort of trance, but the commander wasn't buying it.

"I don't care if you're the president himself. I have orders directly from Col —" His face softened, and the edges of his mouth quirked as he corrected himself. "General Ramirez not to let anyone through."

_"Aw, Matty!"_ Pete gushed. _"Your men are happy you're a general now, too!"_

Ignoring Pete, Eliot said, "I know. He told me. That's why I'm here."

The commander still didn't lower his gun. He was good. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Eliot said, "that Matty gave me permission to come down here and test you. Make sure you're not lying down on the job just because everyone's at the party."

Eliot hoped that by using Matty's first name, rather than his rank, the commander would see him as less of a threat — as a friend of Matty, not some random guy trying to trick them.

_"Even though you're actually both,"_ Pete commented.

Eliot's ploy only partially worked: the other three men holstered their weapons; the commander did not.

Eliot had to try hard not to shake his head in disappointment. _Don't holster your weapon until the suspect is neutralized or your commanding officer gives an order._ At least the commander wasn't so easily fooled, although he did relax slightly.

Unfortunately, Eliot needed him to be fooled. But that could be rectified.

Eliot faked a smile. "I'm pleased to inform you, Commander Alvarez, that you passed with flying colors." He paused only slightly while he read the commander's name from his uniform, but Alvarez didn't seem to notice. "Matty told me you couldn't be fooled. He said you were one of his best commanders. Or did he say you were the best?"

Eliot frowned, as if trying to remember, then waved his hand dismissively. "I don't remember. Either way, he said I wouldn't be able to get past you, and he was obviously right."

Alvarez responded exactly like Eliot expected — his chest puffed out, he relaxed a little more, and he even lowered his weapon from its original ninety-degree position to about forty-five degrees relative to his body.

Eliot continued, "I'll be sure to tell him you and your unit responded exactly as you were trained."

He hoped that would turn out to be a lie on two counts. First, he had more confidence in Matty's training — and his own grifting ability — than to actually believe these men were acting according to their military instruction.

Second, he had absolutely no intention of ever speaking to Matty about this. In fact, if he had his way, Alvarez wouldn't either, and Matty need never know about Eliot's trip to the Tombs.

Eliot brought the con home. "Excellent job, Commander." As an added touch, he extended his hand to Alvarez, remembering the talk he'd heard Sophie give Vittori over the earbuds about people being hard-wired to respond to the gesture.

To Eliot's surprise, Alvarez holstered his weapon and shook Eliot's hand with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Spencer."

_"Damn, Sophie wasn't kidding about the handshake thing!"_ said Pete.

Eliot agreed. He made a mental note to mention it to her later.

Out loud, however, he gave a sincerely awkward chuckle. "I haven't been a commander in years," he said, realizing how his response mimicked that of the General's when they'd spoken back in Boston.

"Once a commander, always a commander," Alvarez said with a wink. "Matty and General Flores have always spoken fondly of you, sir. Stories of your adventures. Or how you saved General Flores twice."

In spite of the numerous things that bothered him about those comments — "Sir"? Matty speaking "fondly" of him? Adventures? And Alvarez referring to Matty by his first name rather than his official rank warned Eliot that the two were closer than he'd previously thought or hoped — Eliot couldn't help the automatic response that escaped before he could stop it:

"Once and a half."

Alvarez laughed, and the other three men stepped forward eagerly. "Exactly. That's one of the stories."

"Is it true that you and Matty single-handedly defeated a dozen of Moreau's men to save a fellow soldier while on a scouting mission?" asked the guard who'd reached for his radio.

_"Aw, come on!"_ complained Pete. _"It's not my fault I got knocked unconscious thirty seconds in. How come I'm not a legend?"_

A pang shot through Eliot's heart with such force his vision started to blur. He'd forgotten about that mission. It had been one of the few times he and Matty had agreed on a plan without a word — get Pete to safety, no matter what. When they weren't fighting, they actually worked together like a well-oiled machine, like this afternoon with the guards in the closet. Before he could stop himself, Eliot imagined what might have happened had Matty been with them that day —

No. He couldn't handle this. Not now. He hadn't expected to be greeted like a hero. He didn't want to be a damned legend. He just wanted to be left alone.

"Yeah," he rasped, before clearing his throat. He took a step forward. "Listen, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got orders to go down and talk to Moreau, so if you could just —"

"Hold it." Alvarez threw out an arm to block Eliot's path.

_Shit._

"Orders from who?" Alvarez prompted. He was tense again, and his hand rested on his sidearm.

_"Whom,"_ Pete corrected.

"General Ramirez," Eliot answered. At the skeptical look Alvarez gave him, Eliot threw up his arms in surrender. "Hey, I don't want to be here anymore than you do. But given my … history with Moreau" — he paused slightly in an attempt to choose the most appropriate word — "President Vittori, General Flores, and General Ramirez thought it would be a good idea for me to be the one to interrogate him. Trust me," he added. "I'd much rather be upstairs partying."

Alvarez cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Because General Ramirez explicitly told us that no one was allowed to see Moreau except for him, and that wasn't going to happen until tomorrow."

"Change of plans," said Eliot. "They decided to take advantage of my expertise before I leave."

Alvarez reached for his radio. The man was damned good.

"Go ahead and call him," Eliot bluffed. "But when I left the ballroom, he'd finally pulled himself away from work and was dancing with his wife for the first time tonight. Something tells me he won't be too happy to be pulled away from that. And neither will she."

At the mention of Matty's potential annoyance, Alvarez paused. But Eliot didn't even have to speak Maria's name to elicit a shudder from all four soldiers that said, _"Piss off our general? Eh. Piss of his wife? Hell no."_

Alvarez stared at Eliot for what seemed like an eternity. Eliot could see his mind whirring, trying to decide whether to check with Matty and risk Maria's wrath, or to trust the legendary Commander Spencer. Eliot's heart pounded, but he forced his face to stay as impassive as possible. If he couldn't keep it together in front of Alvarez, he didn't stand a chance in the Tombs against Moreau.

Finally, as if against his own better judgment — _Your instincts are good, Alvarez_, Eliot thought — the commander sighed. "All right. But you have fifteen minutes. No more."

"Yes, sir." Eliot saluted as he stepped into the elevator. "See you in fifteen."

All four men saluted back — as if Eliot was their current commanding officer and not an American who used to work for Damien Moreau and hadn't been seen in nearly a decade — although Alvarez continued to look uncomfortable until the doors closed and Eliot could no longer see him.

Eliot let out an enormous sigh of relief. He did not want to have to explain to Matty, of all people, why he was down here.

At the same time, he was conscious of an immense disappointment. Alvarez should have called Matty. What if it hadn't been Eliot trying to get down here? Eliot knew more than anyone how capable Moreau was of bribing whomever necessary to get what he wanted. Maybe he did need to talk to Matty about security.

_"Are you serious?" _Pete asked. _"Alvarez did what you wanted, and you're pissed at him. But if he hadn't let you down here, you'd be pissed at him, too. Poor guy can't catch a break."_

As Eliot descended into the Tombs for the second time today, he closed his eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. In his mind, he found the box — or was it a new one, since the old one had exploded earlier? — and started to shove all his errant thoughts and feelings into it again. All his fears and anxieties and thoughts about Matty and Maria, and Juan, and Sophie, and Hardison and Parker, and Nate — everything went into the box. All the memories, good and bad, about Chapman, and leaving San Lorenzo, and —

"I'm going to need you to get out of my head for this," he said to Pete.

_"There's only one way to make that happen," _Pete said almost gleefully. _"And you haven't done it yet. Besides, Sophie said —"_

For the first time since he'd arrived in San Lorenzo a week ago, Eliot shut Pete's voice out. He shoved it into the box and slammed the lid down hard. He knew the silence wouldn't last long, but it didn't need to. It only had to last long enough to get him through this conversation with Moreau.

His heart pounded so hard he thought it might explode from his chest. The elevator stopped moving. Just as he had before he and Hardison had talked with Moreau at the pool, he emptied his mind and wiped his face clear of any emotion. He cleared his throat to ensure it would sound steady and even, and took one last deep breath as the doors opened.

.

.

.

Eliot stepped out into the silence of the Tombs. Only one cell was occupied — the one at the far end, exactly opposite the elevator. Damien Moreau lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling, a forearm resting on his forehead. He had apparently given up his attempt to scream and shout his way out. At the sound of the doors, he turned his head in Eliot's direction just long enough to see who had entered. Then he returned his gaze to the ceiling with a sigh of disgust.

"I wondered when I'd be seeing you." Moreau's voice sounded lazy, but Eliot had spent long enough learning its every fluctuation to be able to hear the tension just beneath the surface. "Come to gloat?"

"Nah." Eliot was surprised at the lightness of his own voice. "That's Nate's thing, not mine."

As he walked down the narrow hallway to the far cell, Eliot observed the state of Moreau's appearance. Usually, Damien Moreau was the picture of a sleek, international business man — perfect hair, sharp suit, handsome face, charming smile. Not a stitch out of place. Even Eliot had never seen him look anything less than completely composed.

But now — now Moreau was an absolute mess. No suit jacket was even in sight; perhaps he'd taken it off before his arrest. A dark grey vest was balled up in a corner, as if he'd thrown it away. His hair was disheveled, and his white shirt, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, was stained with sweat. He was in his socks, and Eliot couldn't see shoes, a belt, or a tie — Matty had probably ordered them confiscated to prevent Moreau from trying to kill himself. While Eliot applauded the effort, he knew it was unnecessary. A man like Damien Moreau would never end his life in such disgrace; not when there was even a remote possibility for revenge. But seeing Moreau in this state — completely and utterly defeated — brought a grin to Eliot's face.

"You look like shit," he said as he approached the cell door.

Moreau shot him a glare that, in another time and place, might have caused a shiver to run down Eliot's spine. Now, without the money or power to back it up, it glanced off Eliot like a paper sword, flaccid and impotent.

"I thought you weren't here to gloat," Moreau snapped.

With a calm smile and a tone so bland that, had it been a sauce, he would have thrown it out of his kitchen, Eliot responded, "Come on, Damien. It's been too long. Got to break the ice somehow."

Moreau scoffed and looked back to the ceiling. "I saw your adorable little dog-fighting story on the news. The puppy was a nice touch." He glanced at Eliot from the corner of his eye. "What was it, a Rottweiler?" His lips curled into the taunting sneer that had come to define him.

In spite of everything else going on, the fact that Emma/Sparky/Gigabyte was part Rottweiler had not escaped Eliot's notice. Perhaps that had been why he'd taken such a liking to her; he, too, knew what it was like to be part-killer.

He shrugged. "Dunno. Parker found her somewhere. A mutt. She served her purpose."

They fell into a silence. As it stretched on, Eliot watched Moreau grow tenser and more uncomfortable; fidgeting, but making a concerted effort to avoid looking at Eliot. Finally, when he could no longer stand it, he exploded from his prone position, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the cot as though he'd been shocked.

He gripped the frame of the bed until his knuckles turned white and snarled, "We had a deal."

"A deal?" Eliot blinked. "A deal is when two parties come to an arrangement with jointly agreeable terms. What we had was a ceasefire — a suspension of hostilities that I was blackmailed into — that staved off a war. What we had was mutually assured destruction."

"And you fired the first shot. I met your little hacker friend." Moreau's voice dripped with disdain and condescension. "He was the same one who …" A pause, and that cruel smile was back. "… took a swim in the pool."

He stared at Eliot, waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one, his smile evaporated. "You tried to con me," he snapped. "_Me_. You know what I'm capable of. Why?"

"I do know what you're capable of," Eliot said. He kept his voice calm and even. "But my team didn't. I wasn't lying in the hotel when I said that I hadn't told anyone about you. It just wasn't for that bullshit client confidentiality reason I gave."

"No? Why then?"

Eliot took a slow breath and briefly looked away. "Guilt. Shame. I was ashamed to have ever been associated with you. Ashamed of the things I did for you." The last part was barely above a whisper.

Moreau tilted his head to one side. "You know, I've always wondered — when exactly did you grow a conscience? You used to attack, torture, and kill at my beck and call without even batting an eye. What changed?"

Eliot was silent for a moment. His body tensed, and he gritted his teeth so hard he had trouble speaking. But he met Moreau's eyes as he said, "They were children, Damien."

Moreau's face lit up with his characteristic smug smirk. "Ah, I see. Innocent children. So you always had a conscience. You just deluded yourself into thinking that you were doing something right. Probably the whole 'just following orders' thing. But innocent children — you couldn't delude yourself anymore." He paused as if thinking. "Is that when you decided to turn traitor, then? When I told you to exterminate the Perez family?"

Eliot clenched his fists and was unable to keep his eye from twitching at the word _exterminate_. Perhaps it was the way it rolled off Moreau's tongue, like he was relishing every syllable.

Moreau's smirk morphed into a full-blown grin. He could see that he was getting under Eliot's skin.

Eliot took a deep breath and forced his voice to remain steady. "No. I actually convinced myself that I wanted to work for you, even after I —" He faltered, but forced the words out. After nearly a decade, he was ready to confess. "After I killed the Perezes. I was ready and willing to kill for you again."

"So when exactly did you change your mind, then?" In spite of his cavalier tone, Moreau sounded genuinely interested, as though he'd been waiting for years to ask that question. "When you were captured?"

It was Eliot's turn to look smug. "I wasn't captured, Damien. I made a choice."

"When?"

"When he refused to get on his knees."

Moreau popped to his feet eagerly, approaching the bars of his cell with a surprised and delighted look on his face. "You made it, then? You had him? My good friend Escobar" — another cruel smirk — "told me you got to Flores's room, but he was a little light on the details." He nodded approvingly, and his smirk grew into a sick smile. "You could have killed him that night?" He clapped his hands excitedly. "I knew you could do it. You were the best. _We_ were the best." He spoke the last sentence with a sort of sad nostalgia, and the smile melted into a frown. "So, you had him there, right in front of you, and what? You told him to get on his knees so you could kill him, and he refused? That's what changed your mind?" He laughed mirthlessly. "I had no idea you were so weak."

He lingered on the last word, drawing out the _w_, savoring the vowel, and ending with a short, sharp _k_. It was his favorite insult, reserved for those who earned his greatest disdain and spoken with the derision that had always been one of his most powerful weapons.

In spite of himself, Eliot flinched. That word — along with _coward_, which Matty had called him earlier in the day — was among the few that could elicit such a visceral reaction from him. Perhaps because of his time with Moreau and how often he'd heard it hurled at others — and occasionally himself. It was a word that always seemed to find its way through his armor and hit closest to home because, deep down, weakness had always been one of the things of which he was most afraid.

But no more. He refused to allow himself to be a victim of Moreau's disgust. Somehow he forced his voice to remain soft and calm as he asked, "Weak?" He took a step closer to the bars, and Moreau eyed him warily. "You still haven't actually done it, have you? You've never killed anyone yourself. Sure, you order it like some king on his throne, but other people do the dirty work. You've never heard them beg for death. You've never seen the light in their eyes go out, knowing you're the one that snuffed it. Well, let me tell you something I've learned through years of doing your dirty work."

He grabbed the bars of the cell and leaned in close; Moreau took a step back. When he spoke again, Eliot's tone had dropped about twenty degrees. "It is a hell of a lot easier to kill than not. The difficulty comes in making the choice not to kill, and following through. The Eliot Spencer who worked for you, the Rottweiler … he was weak. That night was when I finally found the strength to say no."

Moreau swallowed but recovered quickly by cocking a smug eyebrow. "And Flores did that? By not getting on his knees?"

Eliot gave the slightest of smiles. "That night was also when I learned why you were always so afraid of him." At Moreau's scoff and accompanying eye-roll, he added, "Oh, you were definitely afraid of him. Otherwise you wouldn't have kept trying to kill him. And I finally figured out why. He's very persuasive."

"Persuasive?" Moreau jeered. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Not everyone rules through fear, Damien. Juan can sense the strength, the good in people, and he tells them. People want to do good. They just need someone to tell them they have the capacity."

Moreau lay back down and resumed staring at the ceiling, hands behind his head. "Wow. You're a lot of things, Eliot, but I never pegged you as a sanctimonious asshole. You and Ford" — he spat the name as if it were a nasty taste in his mouth — "really do make a great team. But as sanctimonious as you are, nothing's really changed." He turned his head to Eliot and fixed him with a knowing smile. "I know what you did in that warehouse in D.C. Fourteen men. You kill for Ford just like you killed for me. The Rottweiler is still alive and well, he just serves a different master now."

Eliot tilted his head, considering. "You know, I've been thinking a lot about that since what happened in the warehouse. You and Nate are really two sides of the same coin. You're both manipulative bastards who search for the weaknesses in others. You both know how to use those weaknesses to exploit, and you both understand that the cruelest punishments are much worse than death. The difference is, he uses his power for good."

Moreau snorted. "Good? Watch how this country falls apart without me controlling things."

"We'll see about that," said Eliot. "But at least the people have a choice now."

Moreau shrugged. "Choice is overrated. People want someone to tell them what to do, and how to do it. Makes things easier." He gave an evil grin. "It did for you, didn't it? Until you grew that conscience."

"People don't always want what's easy, Damien. Like I said, people want to do good. They want what's best. That's what you took from them, and what we gave them back."

Moreau chuckled. "You have an interesting idea of what's 'good.' You rigged an election. And you somehow got Flores and Ramirez and _her_" — his eyes glinted with a hatred Eliot had rarely seen there — "to go along with it. Apparently they're not as honest as I thought."

"They understand that sometimes you have to fight fire with fire."

Moreau rolled his eyes. "Well you're just full of all sorts of fortune cookie wisdom today, aren't you? Do you and Ford sit around, throwing cute little quips back and forth about thieves and stealing elections and good versus evil?"

"You keep going back to Nate," said Eliot lightly. "Why? Because he beat you?"

In an instant Moreau was on his feet. He thrust his face between the bars and snarled, "I am not beaten."

Eliot glanced around the Tombs. "Coulda fooled me."

"I have allies all over the world —"

"And we've been taking 'em down, one by one."

Moreau actually growled. "I'll be back. You'll see."

Eliot raised his hands in mock surrender. "You're getting awfully defensive. I just came down for a chat."

"About what, exactly?" Moreau snapped. "Because all you've done so far is gloat and preach. Did Ford send you here? Or Flores? To taunt me?"

"They don't know I'm here. In fact, if they did, I'd probably get my ass chewed." Eliot winked. "And as you know, an ass-chewing from Nate is not enjoyable."

Moreau's jaw tightened. "You can be as flippant and cutesy as you want, Spencer, but you know as well as I do that you've just sold your soul to a different devil."

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean Nate? The Devil? That's interesting, coming from you." He looked away, pretending to think. "The two of you really are similar. And if Nate applied himself in that direction …" He gave a concessionary nod. "Yeah, he could do that — though he'd be better at it than you, if today is any indication." Moreau's eyes narrowed, and Eliot smirked. "Yeah … I've got my eye on him, in case he turns that direction. He's gotten close, but never crossed that line. But he could. His father did."

Moreau scoffed.

"Surprised?" asked Eliot. "Nate's father was a small time gangster and loan shark in Boston." He chuckled to himself. "You two really are similar. Massive daddy issues."

Moreau's eyes flashed dangerously, but Eliot continued.

"Nate's father was a crook, and he rebelled by going to seminary school and almost becoming a priest. Kinda the opposite of you and your daddy, huh?"

Moreau paled, and his lips formed a thin line. Eliot knew he'd hit the mark.

"What?" He allowed his voice to drip with condescension, like Moreau's always did. "You think the old man didn't talk? You really should have taken care of him yourself. But we both know you're not actually capable of doing the dirty work, right?" Eliot stared vacantly, remembering. "Yeah, he talked. That was an interesting job. I couldn't figure out why in the hell you'd want me to kill a little old minister of a church in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere, San Lorenzo. But like you said, the Rottweiler does as he's told, follows orders, no questions asked." His brow furrowed slightly. "He surprised me because he wasn't afraid. I had quite a reputation by then, so I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen anything like it. He started talking, and I let him. And he had a fascinating story to tell." He lingered on the word _fascinating_ and widened his eyes as he said it. "He told me all about little Damien, and how he used to be such a good boy, but somehow he'd fallen away from God. He prayed that God would forgive him for not helping you see the light. He prayed that God would forgive you. And me," he added, almost as an afterthought.

While he spoke, Eliot watched Moreau's face. The man's eyes bore into Eliot with a loathing that might have, years ago, made Eliot backtrack. But not today.

"Nate Ford went after his father, too. But he did it himself. And when he finally got the chance to finish him — not even to kill him, just send him to jail — he couldn't do it. He showed mercy. But you — you were too much of a coward to go after your own father." Eliot spat the word like the insult it was, then hissed, "And I don't think you even know what mercy is."

"And you do?" Moreau's voice was quiet, but he raised his eyebrows in a way that implied he highly doubted it.

The question caught Eliot off-guard. Moreau hadn't spoken in several minutes, and Eliot hadn't expected him to interrupt. But as always with Moreau's questions, he didn't have an answer.

Did he know what mercy was?

Moreau chuckled. "You come in here, preaching from your moral high ground, as if what you and Ford do is so much better that what I do. But it's no different. Does he show mercy to his victims? I know what you did to Larry Duberman, and Alexander Moto, and John Keller, and Mark Vector. Did they get some of that mercy? Did I?" He glanced around the Tombs as Eliot had earlier. "And you. Do you ever show mercy? You certainly didn't in that warehouse. You killed them all, in cold blood, and then blew up the evidence." He leaned into the bars and snarled, "So don't you dare lecture me about mercy."

Eliot took a step back. Moreau was right. Nate didn't show mercy — and neither did he.

Then a memory surfaced, from long ago. It should have been trapped in that box with all the others, but somehow it alone had escaped. He was back in the barracks, at the San Lorenzo army base, and Juan was speaking to him.

_"So you disobeyed orders," Juan said, almost to himself. He looked at Eliot. "You were ... merciful."_

_"Merciful?" Eliot snarled. "You have a funny idea of mercy."_

_"We both know full well that there are worse things than death, Eliot," Juan said. "In those cases, yes, death itself is merciful."_

_"That doesn't change anything," Eliot said quietly._

_"Nor should it. You have a lot of blood on your hands, Eliot Spencer. You will never be clean of that."_

_Juan stood. Eliot looked up at him as he moved to leave. Their eyes met._

_"But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of doing good."_

Eliot's vision blurred. Juan had said those things less than twelve hours after Eliot had tried to kill him. He'd seen Eliot show mercy — to the Perezes, to his men, to him — and had known, in that moment, that Eliot was capable of so much more. Thanks to Juan — no, thanks to Moreau, without whom, as Sophie had so eloquently said, Eliot would never have become the man he was today — Eliot did know what mercy was.

"Yes, Damien. I do," he said with a conviction he hadn't felt since long before he'd joined Nate, or Juan, or even Moreau. "I know what mercy is. And so does Nate. And part of mercy is knowing when to show it, and when it's not deserved."

He took a step forward, closing the distance he'd put between Moreau and himself at the man's question.

"There's something you need to understand. I made a choice in that warehouse, just like the choices I made when I worked for you. The difference is, it was _my_ choice. I wasn't given an order. In fact, Nate tried to stop me. He tried to figure out a way to get us out of that warehouse without any bloodshed." Eliot shook his head in disbelief at Nate's naïveté. "But he's not like you and me. He doesn't understand that sometimes bloodshed is the only way. So maybe I did trade the devil I knew for the devil I didn't. But know this —"

Eliot grabbed the bars of the cell and leaned in as close as he could. In a calm, cool, yet menacing voice, he said, "Nate Ford is nothing like you."

He blinked, tilting his head, and looked away from Moreau to a spot on the wall. He frowned, but after a moment his lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. He returned his gaze to Moreau as he pushed himself off the bars and away from the man responsible for a past he'd spent the past eight years running from.

"And neither am I."

Moreau sneered. "Well congratulations on your little epiphany. So glad I could help. But I still don't understand why you're here. To mock me? To tell me you've changed your ways? To lecture me about mercy and how wonderful you are?"

Eliot smirked. "Like I said: the important thing about mercy is knowing when to show it, and when it's undeserved."

Moreau paled, and his eyes flashed with something Eliot had only seen there twice before — fear. He gulped, and in a moment it was gone, but it was replaced with only a shadow of his earlier smug sneer.

"Are you here to kill me, then?" Moreau's voice actually shook, and it gave out completely on the last word.

"No, Damien." In contrast, Eliot's voice was steady and calm. "I'm not here to kill you. Because as you know — and Nate knows, and Juan Flores knows — the true punishments in this world are so much worse than death. Death ..." He smiled fondly. "Death is too easy for you, Damien. Just like it's too easy for me. Killing you would be the merciful thing. But people like us don't deserve mercy."

Moreau's eyes widened. The fear was back, and it wasn't a flicker this time.

Eliot had finally realized what he'd come down here to say.

"I'm here to give you a warning, Moreau. No, not a warning — a threat. I know you. Like you said, you're not beaten. You still have allies. But if you ever come near my team; if you ever even think about hurting Juan, or Matty and Maria, or their family; if I ever hear of some 'accident'" — he made quotes with his fingers — "related to any of them …"

For dramatic effect, he paused for two full seconds.

"I will come for you. No — the Rottweiler will come for you. Because you're right. He does serve a different master now." Eliot smirked. "Me. And I'll give him free reign. You saw what he did in the warehouse. That was just the tip of the iceberg. He's been dormant for eight years. He's pretty bloodthirsty. And he's learned an awful lot. From you. From people like Chapman." Eliot's lips curled into the Rottweiler's terrifying grin. "I'll make sure he combines everything he's ever heard of or seen, Moreau, and it'll be just for you. And he'll do it until you beg him to kill you, and then he'll continue until he gets bored. When he's done with you, he'll kill you in the slowest, most painful way he knows how. Then he'll dump your body someplace where no one will ever find it."

Moreau's eyes were wide with horror, and Eliot relished it.

He took a few steps backward, teeth still bared in the Rottweiler's most menacing smile. "You know how these things are done. Or at least, you used to."

He made his finger into a gun and motioned pulling the trigger before turning on his heel and walking back to the elevator.

Moreau's panicked cries followed him. "No! Spencer, listen! Spencer ... ?"

Eliot entered the elevator and pushed the button. "Sleep tight."

He crossed his arms and winked. The Rottweiler grinned at Moreau until the doors closed.

.

.

.

The moment the doors closed, the Rottweiler's sick smile evaporated, and Eliot nearly collapsed against the wall of the elevator. He gasped and gulped the air like he'd just emerged from underwater. His heart raced and his entire body felt like jelly, as if he'd just run a double marathon. But as he brought a trembling hand to his face, one thought kept flashing across his mind, like a neon sign, and in spite of everything, he laughed. A genuine, relieved, happy laugh.

He was — finally — done.

_"Ah-ah, not quite."_ Pete's voice returned as chipper as ever. _"You still have one more thing to do."_

"Yes," Eliot murmured. "A long overdue visit to an old friend."


	22. Chapter 22

_Hello! Thank you all for still reading! I know I've been gone a while, but I promise that all of it was spent working on this chapter. This has been planned from the beginning and is, I think, the heart of the story. It is certainly very close to my own heart. As such, it needed to be perfect. It went through three complete rewrites and at least a dozen revisions to get to this point. Infinite thanks to quirkapotamus and Valawenel, who have betaed this too many times to count and helped it become what it is. Thanks also to my loving and supportive husband, who gave me some vital suggestions and kept me from completely spiraling into an emotional black hole while writing it._

_Be warned: It is long (16,000+ words), but it is all necessary, and it could not be broken up. I hope the length will make up for the wait. It will answer all the questions you've been asking me in reviews, including the biggest one. For those of you who are really on top of things and notice a few questions that still haven't been answered, rest assured, they will come :)_

_Thank you all so much for reading. I may be a week late with this, but I am thankful for you all. Now, without further ado, I present to you what I consider to be my pièce de résistance._

_P.S. You will need tissues._

_._

_._

_._

Chapter 22

"This is so unfair, Eliot." Matty's voice was uncharacteristically harsh and a few notches louder than normal.

He was pissed.

Eliot shoved some supplies into his bag with a bit more force than necessary. They were in his and Pete's room, packing. Matty had been whining since the General had assigned command of this mission to Eliot, and it was really starting to grate on Eliot's nerves.

He wanted to respond with, "This isn't the damned playground, Ramirez," but since that would probably not improve Matty's current mood, he just gritted his teeth and shot Pete a look. But Pete was keeping himself very busy riffling through his own pack.

Keeping his voice as steady and even as possible, Eliot responded, "Hate to tell you this, Ramirez, but sometimes life ain't fair."

Pete tensed but didn't look up or otherwise acknowledge the conversation.

"Gee, thanks for that life lesson, Spencer." Matty's tone was sickeningly sweet. "What would I possibly do without you?"

Pete continued to shuffle the supplies around his pack.

Fine. If that was how they were going to play this, Eliot could oblige.

He poured on the sarcasm so thick it was a wonder his words didn't drown in it. "I don't know, Ramirez, but next time I'll charge extra for advice like that."

Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot saw Pete's brow furrow. At least now Eliot knew he wasn't deaf.

"Dammit, Eliot!" Matty emphasized his anger with a hit to the bed frame. "I'm an essential part of your recon team — you, me, and Pete. You need me, and you know it."

Eliot sighed inwardly. He hated this. It had been like this for the past several months — he and Pete went on missions while Matty had to stay at home. But it wasn't Eliot's call.

"No, we don't need you. Not today. It's a simple mission: we go to the warehouse, check it for weapons, find out that our tip was wrong, and come home. We don't need the whole damned cavalry."

"If it's so simple, why won't you let me go along, then?"

Eliot snatched up his bulletproof vest and threw it on. "Because the General said I get to choose my team, and I choose Pete. End of discussion."

If only.

Matty folded his arms like a petulant teenager. "Did Juan put you up to this?"

The question rankled Eliot. If Juan hadn't wanted Matty to go on the mission, he would have said so himself, not gone behind Matty's back and spoken with Eliot in private. Matty was essentially accusing Juan of using Eliot to do his dirty work. As if Juan Flores was even capable of imagining _dirty work._

"I'm sorry, Commander." Eliot snapped the rank like a whip. "Do you mean _General Flores_? Just because you're getting married to his daughter doesn't mean that you don't have to refer to him with respect."

It wasn't the most mature response Eliot could have given. In fact, it was juvenile and downright petty. But his patience for Matty's bitching was wearing dangerously thin.

Before Matty could shoot off another retort, Pete finally decided to step in.

"That's right," Pete said, mimicking Eliot's sternness and punctuating his words with a pointed finger. "Commander Spencer is really serious about showing respect for the General when we're on duty."

Eliot nearly growled in frustration. Pete always tried to laugh away the issues between Eliot and Matty, and it hardly ever worked. Right now, for example: Pete had a horrible poker face, and he couldn't help but smile at Eliot, as if they were sharing an in-joke, and Matty was on the outside. In spite of himself, Eliot felt his frustration evaporate, and he returned Pete's smile — they _were_ sharing an in-joke. They both remembered, with varying degrees of fondness — meaning Eliot remembered them somewhat fondly, Pete a little less so — the first words Eliot had ever spoken to Pete, back when he was Loud Commander Pete Rodriguez, before they were friends.

_"That's an awfully disrespectful way to address a general."_

Matty snorted. "Well I'm not on duty right now, am I? Since a certain Commander Spencer is being a total dick."

"He's got you there," said Pete, shrugging at Eliot. "You are pretty dickish when you're in Commander Mode."

And the frustration was back.

"Seriously?" Eliot snapped. He was not in the mood for this. Hell, it was because of Pete that he was benching Matty in the first place.

Pete held up his hands in surrender, face bathed in faux innocence. "Hey, don't kill the messenger."

Matty smirked and tossed Eliot a smug look.

Eliot stooped down to busy himself with tying his boots so that he wouldn't be tempted to punch Ramirez in his handsome, infuriating face. He couldn't believe Pete was throwing him under the bus like this.

Then Pete turned to Matty. "That being said, I hate to say it, but I have to agree with Commander Dickhead, here."

Wonderful. That nickname wasn't going away any time soon.

"It's El's mission," Pete continued. "He gets to choose who he takes. And I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to face facts. El likes me more than you."

He grinned, but seemed to realize a second too late how that sounded, because his smile evaporated just as Matty inhaled sharply, as if the words had punched him in the gut. For a moment, Matty's eyes flickered with pain.

Eliot could have smacked Pete. His and Matty's relationship had always been tenuous at best, built on an odd foundation of professional respect and personal resentment. While they more often than not disagreed, they at least grudgingly acknowledged each other's skills as soldiers. But off-duty, Matty never missed a chance to express his displeasure at what he felt was Eliot's usurpation of two of his own roles: son to Juan, who had raised Matty as his own after the death of Matty's parents, and best friend to Pete, who had been Matty's closest friend after the death of Berto Flores. Since Eliot had neither asked for nor felt he deserved the attention he received from either Juan or Pete, he both resented Matty's attitude and agreed with his assessment. Coupled with the constant on-duty disagreements about how to deal with Moreau, hardly a day went by when the two men didn't devolve into some sort of bickering match. In fact, the only reason they tolerated each other at all was Pete, the cornerstone of their fragile and fluid relationship. Their mutual affection for him — and his for them — was the only thing keeping the tension between them evenly balanced between friendship and utter hatred; in fact, Pete had succeeded of late in pushing the balance closer and closer toward friendship. But the equilibrium was a delicate one; a single wrong move, and the two could go from laughing to loathing in the span of a second. The absolute worst thing Pete could do was take sides, shoving that brittle balance firmly and potentially permanently into enmity.

Pete opened his mouth, but he didn't get the chance to correct his mistake. When Matty Ramirez was agitated, he could strike with a venom as potent as any viper's, and the speed to match.

In an instant, Matty's pain was replaced by a stone-cold mask, forcing his mouth into a grim, humorless smile. "Right. Thanks, Pete." Matty fixed Eliot with a frigid glare. "At least one of you has the balls to say it." His stony stare turned to Pete. "You're my best man. You can't pretend to like me better, at least until the wedding?"

Pete looked as if Matty had slapped him, and Eliot's patience snapped. He took a step toward Matty, finally free of the chain he'd been struggling against. He could handle Matty's bitching, and even, with difficulty, a slight against Juan. But accusing Pete of playing favorites? No fucking way.

He bared his teeth and growled, "You know what, Ramirez? I've had enough of your shit today."

Most people shrank back in terror when Eliot Spencer charged them like a mama grizzly, but not Matty. The viper recoiled and struck again. "What are you going to do, Spencer? Kill my family?"

Eliot lunged at Matty, but Pete flung himself between them and shoved them apart, a hand on each man's chest.

"Cut it out!" Pete yelled. "Why is it so damned hard for the two of you to go a single day without trying to rip each other apart?"

Eliot clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to get his anger — and his pain — under control. "Pete, he just —"

"I don't care!" Pete sighed heavily and rubbed his face in frustration. "Why can't you just grow the hell up? I'm so damned tired of having to play referee with you two. And so is Maria, by the way."

Eliot and Matty glared at each other, but a guilty pang shot through Eliot. He shouldn't have lost his temper. He cared about both Pete and Maria, and the last thing he wanted to do was put either of them in an uncomfortable position. The look of shame on Matty's face told Eliot he felt the same way.

"Do you really hate each other that much?" Pete asked. His voice was soft, and it gave out completely on the last word. Eliot could see tears in his friend's eyes, which only served to make him feel like even more of an asshole.

No, he didn't hate Matty. The bastard just always knew which nerves to strike, where the venom would do the most damage.

"Pete." Matty's voice was thick. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean —"

"Forget it," said Pete.

"No. It was a horrible thing to say and —"

"It's all right. I know you didn't mean it. You're just stressed because your wedding's in a week and you're going stir-crazy."

Matty dropped his gaze to the floor. "That's no excuse."

"No, it's not," Eliot muttered.

Both men glared at him.

"It was my fault," Pete continued. "I was trying to make a joke and failed miserably. You're both my best friends, okay? I just got frustrated because I'm tired of feeling like I have to choose between you." He turned to Eliot. "And El, lay off him. You can imagine how he feels, being left out."

Eliot took a breath to prepare his protest, but Pete's eyes begged, _"Just go with it, please."_ And Eliot could never say no to Pete. So he bit his tongue and pretended to be chastised.

Pete turned back to Matty, who was looking sufficiently scolded, too. "Listen, Matty. I promise you this isn't personal, okay? As best man, it's my job to make sure you get to the wedding in one piece. Do you have any idea what Maria would do to me if you didn't show up because something happened while we were checking out some stupid warehouse? I don't know, and I don't want to. That woman scares the shit out of me." He shuddered, and Eliot couldn't tell if it was real or for show.

Eliot barely concealed his surprise that Pete had actually told the truth this time — well, most of it. Usually they tag-teamed feeding Matty the bullshit about the missions being too simple for three men or whatever.

But the truth was, a few months ago, Maria had come to the two of them and asked them to keep Matty away from anything dangerous until after the wedding. Eliot had almost laughed; Matty was a soldier, and a good one, too. Maria had known that from the beginning. It really wasn't fair of her to try to keep him from doing what he loved.

Eliot had been ready to tell her that and more, but as she'd turned to Pete, he'd realized that he had never been her real target.

"Pete, please," she'd begged tearfully. "Matty is the love of my life, and I can't lose him. If anyone can understand that, it's you. If you could have kept Sarah away from danger, wouldn't you have done it? Wouldn't you have done anything to be able to marry her?"

The anguish in Pete's eyes had been too much for even Maria to bear, because she'd looked away and rasped, "Please, Pete, I'm begging you."

Eliot had never in his life hit a woman, but he had been angry enough to think about it that day. But before he could even speak, Pete had croaked, "Yes, Maria. We'll keep him safe. We'll make sure nothing happens to him. I promise."

"Thank you, Pete!" Maria had cried, throwing her arms around him. Eliot had seen, though, from the way Pete had closed his eyes tight and pulled Maria close, that her words had hurt him more than she'd ever imagined.

And they were still hurting, Eliot realized as he saw the raw pain in Pete's eyes now. The shudder _was_ real, and it was because of Maria. Just not because of the reason Pete had stated.

But Matty didn't know any of that.

The look in his eyes was one of desperation. "It's a simple mission. Even El said so." Matty grabbed Pete by the shoulders. "It's been a month since I've done anything even remotely connected to a mission. I feel like I'm being punished, not getting married. I'm going crazy! Please, just this one?"

Pete took a deep breath and looked at Eliot. The pain in his eyes said one thing: _"El, we promised. We can't let Maria lose him like I lost Sarah. Please."_

Eliot sighed. He and Matty had their issues, but he hated this. Pete wasn't a soldier; not really — he was here because of Sarah. His life had been turned upside down when she was killed. He'd had no other family or friends, so he'd joined the army to get justice for her and to keep others from suffering the same fate. But Eliot could understand Matty's yearning for action, even if it wasn't for the same reason as his own. Eliot was trained for this, and had been for close to a decade; he was here to at least try to make up for the things he'd done, even though he knew that was impossible. But Matty fought for the purest of reasons: to protect his country and the people he cared about. Eliot was denying him that, even if it was for the sakes of two of the people Matty cared about most.

But Matty didn't know any of that. And since this was Eliot's mission, he was the one who had to be the bad guy.

"Nope. Sorry," Eliot said in his Commander voice. "It's like Pete said. I have no idea what Maria would do to me if I let something happen to you, and I don't want to know." He softened his voice. "You're just going to have to hold on a bit longer, buddy."

Eliot expected more protests, but instead, Matty's shoulders slumped in defeat. He looked utterly miserable, and Eliot was responsible.

He really was a dick.

"Here." Pete dug in his pack and pulled out a piece of equipment. "Why don't you take my radio? We'll be on the normal frequency, so you can chat with us while we're on the mission. Almost like you're there."

"Yeah, almost like I'm there." Matty's face and posture didn't change, but the sarcasm in his voice was so sharp it could have sliced through steel. "It'll be exactly the same."

"Pete," Eliot started. "I don't think —"

"I know it's not the best option," said Pete. "But I think it's a pretty good compromise."

Eliot looked between the two men. Pete was silently imploring Eliot to _"Just shut up and go with it,"_ but that wasn't what gave him pause. Although Matty's face was stoic, his eyes pleaded with the eagerness and innocence of a child asking Santa for a baby brother for Christmas.

Eliot wasn't that much of a dick.

"A good compromise?" He snorted, and both Pete and Matty looked devastated. He turned to Pete and continued, "You're an idiot. Matty can use his own radio."

Eliot almost smiled at the relieved look on Pete's face. Then he looked at Matty. Though the man's eyes lit up like that child getting his wish on Christmas morning, his face remained impassive as ever. He nodded almost imperceptibly at Eliot, then turned to Pete.

"El's right. You are an idiot. You need your radio, dumbass."

"It was a gesture!" Pete sounded indignant, but his horrible poker face gave away his obvious delight. "It wasn't meant to be literal!"

Eliot and Matty both cocked their eyebrows.

"You handed me your radio," said Matty.

"Seemed pretty literal to me," Eliot muttered.

It was a sign of Eliot and Matty's fluid and tumultuous relationship that they shared a smirk then, all previous hostility temporarily forgotten. At times like these, Eliot actually enjoyed being around the man; they could get along quite well when they worked together to make Pete laugh and weren't bogged down in their own complicated issues.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Pete rolled his eyes good-naturedly and took his radio back from Matty. "Go ahead and laugh. I accomplished my goal. You're both so busy making fun of me you forgot to hate each other." He let out a contented sigh. "All in a day's work."

Eliot returned to his pack, avoiding Matty's gaze, but he knew they both felt Pete's jab. They shouldn't have needed Pete to distract them from arguing like a couple of toddlers being bribed to get along with cookies or candy.

"So what happens next?" Matty asked. Pete's comment had taken the laugh right out of him. "After I get married, am I going be stuck here because I'm the General's son-in-law?"

Eliot hoped not, for the sake of both Matty and San Lorenzo. Matty was the best soldier Eliot knew, aside from himself. They needed him. But Eliot gave the answer that Matty needed to hear in that moment, and that he needed to give if they were ever going to get to that warehouse.

"That's something you'll have to discuss with your future wife. For now you're stuck with — What?"

At the words _future wife_, Matty's face broke into an enormous, sincere, almost giddy grin, erasing any previous traces of melancholy or disappointment. Eliot remembered with more than a hint of bitterness just how objectively handsome the man was.

"Oh, El." Pete's eyes twinkled, and a mischievous smile blossomed on his face. "I think I just discovered my new favorite game."

Eliot and Matty, fragile balance reestablished, exchanged a confused look and turned to Pete with identical puzzled expressions.

"What the —" Matty started.

"El's right." Pete's smile grew larger and more ominous. "You will have to discuss this with your _future wife_."

Matty beamed even more brightly than before. "What does that have to do with —" As he finally realized Pete was teasing him, Matty's grin evaporated. "That's not funny."

"No, it's not," Pete agreed. "It's adorable."

Eliot snorted in spite of himself, and Matty shot him a dirty look.

Yep, equilibrium reachieved.

"Aw, don't be like that, Matty." Pete's smile was borderline devilish now. "Have you talked to your _future wife_ today?"

Matty cracked a grin before Pete even finished the sentence, but before Pete could react, Eliot interrupted.

"As much fun as this new little game is, we need to get going. You ready, Rodriguez?"

"Ready when you are."

They moved to leave.

"Wait!" Pete began frantically searching his pockets. He sounded almost panicked. "Where is it?"

Eliot and Matty moved in unison toward Pete. There was only one thing they automatically prioritized above anything else and would work together without a word to set right — Pete's emotional well-being.

"Wait, hang on …" Pete suddenly sighed in obvious relief. "Found it." He pulled a small paper from his pocket and, eyes closed, clutched it tight to his chest. His brow furrowed, but after a moment he stuck it back in his jacket and said, "Sorry. Let's go."

"You sure?" Eliot asked.

"Yep."

Eliot and Matty exchanged a worried look when Pete refused to meet either of their gazes.

"Seriously, I'm fine," Pete said. "Let's get this over with, okay?"

A shared glance was all Eliot and Matty needed to silently agree on a plan.

Pete moved toward the door, and Eliot followed. Matty didn't move, but he called after them, a miserable look pasted on his face and his whine just a bit over-the-top. "Pete, what if you catch Moreau and I miss it?"

"We'll tell him you were too busy thinking about your _future wife_," Pete called over his shoulder with a smirk.

Matty's grin reappeared reflexively, but he winked at Eliot as they left.

Eliot laughed to let Pete know that the awkward moment was forgotten, but it faded quickly. Matty's reactions were cute — Eliot found Matty and Maria much more adorable and romantic than he would ever admit out loud — but the little game was just covering up and postponing the larger problem: benching Matty, the best soldier San Lorenzo had to offer.

"Don't look like that, El," Pete said as they got into the truck. "It's only for a few more days. After the wedding, things'll be back to normal, and the three of us'll be thick as thieves again, out there on missions. And like you said, this one's simple. We'll be back before dinner."

Eliot knew he was right, but he still couldn't wait for the damned wedding to be over.

.

.

.

"Are you guys there yet?" Matty asked over the radio.

Had it really been less than ten minutes ago that Eliot had felt sorry for Matty? Because right now he wanted to strangle the man.

Eliot drove the truck with one hand so he could speak into his radio. "Believe it or not, Ramirez, we're only thirty seconds farther along than the last time you asked us that, and only forty-five seconds farther than the time before, and considering I told you both times we're still five minutes out, I think you should —"

"Not yet, Matty." Pete spoke over Eliot into his own radio. "Four minutes." He released the button. "Be nice. You know he's going crazy —"

"He's driving _me _crazy! I can't believe you suggested he listen in."

"I panicked, all right? He was looking at me with those pitiful puppy dog eyes."

"Puppy dog eyes? Are we talking about the same Matty Ramirez?"

"Hey, you could have said no. Don't pretend you didn't give in because you know you'd feel exactly the same way if you were in his shoes."

Eliot paused for a second too long, because Pete added, "See? You —"

"Hey," came Matty's voice over the radio again. "You guys there yet?"

Eliot groaned. Pete sighed, pushing the button. "Nope, still three minutes out."

Five and a half agonizing minutes later — they'd underestimated the travel time, which had resulted in Matty asking every ten seconds for the final minute and a half of the drive — they arrived at the warehouse. Well, technically they pulled up a couple of blocks from the warehouse, which was located in the waterfront district of the capital. The area was filled with abandoned and somewhat isolated warehouses built so close together they were only separated by narrow alleys.

They were following up on their fifth anonymous tip in two weeks. Normally, Eliot wouldn't have trusted any tip that hadn't come from a thoroughly vetted source, but this was one thing about which the General was absolutely adamant.

"The people require a safe avenue if they are ever going to help us," he always insisted. "They need to be able to provide information about Moreau without risking their lives — or the lives of their families."

It sounded like a great idea in theory, but it had also resulted in four false alarms in ten days. In practice, instead of finding weapons, the General's forces wasted a lot of time on wild goose chases.

"Hey guys," said Matty. "Do you —"

Eliot cut him off. "We just got here."

"Oh, well thanks for the heads up, but that's actually not what I was going to say."

_"Be nice,"_ Pete mouthed. He spoke into his radio encouragingly. "What were you going to say, Matty?"

"I was going to ask if the tip had said anything specific about the weapons we're supposed to find here."

"No, it didn't. Just the standard, 'Thar be weapons here.' Why?"

"Just thinking that it'd be nice if we could put some of those armor-piercing rounds out of commission, you know?"

Eliot couldn't argue with that. Over the past couple of months, they'd lost five men who'd been shot — through their bulletproof vests — with armor-piercing rounds. The wounds were gruesome, and the doctors hadn't succeeded in saving anyone yet. If they could confiscate some of those rounds, they could save their own men and who knew how many civilians.

"Yeah," Eliot agreed. "We'll keep an eye out. We're going in now, so we'll need some quiet. We'll radio when we secure the warehouse."

Matty sighed. "Right. So much for 'almost like you're there.'"

"What was that, Ramirez?"

"I said, 'Roger that,' Commander Dickhead."

Eliot growled, but not into the radio, then turned to Pete. "You ready?"

Pete didn't respond. He was staring in silence at a small paper he'd pulled out of his pocket. Eliot didn't press him; this was a ritual he knew better than to disturb.

The paper in Pete's hand — the one he'd frantically searched for back at base — was an old photo. In it, a younger, much happier Pete sat smiling next to a beautiful young woman with long, dark hair that fell to her shoulders in waves and bright brown eyes that twinkled with passion and mirth. On her left hand was a simple but elegant gold diamond ring. Her head was tilted back slightly in laughter, as though Pete had just told a joke. Young Pete was holding her hand, and his smile was genuine and content. He gazed at her fondly, his own eyes sparkling with complete and utter love.

The photograph was tattered; it had been laminated at some point in the past, but even with that it seemed on the verge of disintegrating. The woman's face was more faded than anything else, and Eliot had seen Pete's rite enough times to understand why: as Eliot watched, Pete reached out his index finger and gently touched the woman's nose. He closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them, he placed Sarah's photo back in the inside pocket of his jacket, turned to Eliot and said, "Ready when you are."

"All right," said Eliot. "Hope for the best …"

"… prepare for the worst," Pete finished. It was tradition in the San Lorenzan military to say this before every mission, like a charm to ward off bad omens. For Eliot, it wasn't so much about superstition as the comforting familiarity of the phrase. Hearing it calmed his nerves and focused him, allowing him to step easily into, as Pete liked to call it, Commander Mode.

They gathered their gear and silently approached the warehouse. Although it was his mission, Eliot allowed Pete to lead the way. He smiled, remembering the Loud Commander guarding his door that first night, stomping, coughing, and breathing so loudly Eliot could have heard him coming a mile away. Now Pete was as silent as Eliot was. He was armed with a small pistol; Eliot carried only his knives, as always.

Pete held up a hand for Eliot to stop as they came to the door. He listened for a moment, then nodded to Eliot. Eliot held up three fingers, then two, then one. When he got to one finger, Pete opened the door as quietly as possible and they both entered the warehouse —

And right into a trap.

.

.

.

Eliot and Pete stood face-to-face with more than a dozen men, guns aimed at their chests. A sniper, positioned in scaffolding a story up, leveled a laser sight right over Eliot's heart.

"Evening, Spencer." Chapman appeared about five feet to Eliot's left, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Son of a bitch," Pete muttered, though he held his weapon steady.

"Drop it," Chapman snapped. "And keep your hands where I can see them."

Pete dropped the gun with a clatter and kicked it away. One of the men scooped it up.

Chapman nodded at Eliot. "Where's yours?"

Eliot kept his voice flat as he turned his head to stare at the bastard. "I don't like guns."

"Since when?"

"Since I realized I didn't need one."

The men shuffled nervously. Chapman's smile faltered for a millisecond before he rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Move."

They marched Eliot and Pete — hands spread apart and held aloft like victims of a stagecoach robbery — into the middle of the warehouse, careful to give them both a wide berth.

"What, you're not going to frisk us?" Pete cocked an eyebrow. "El, I think they're scared you'll beat the shit out of them."

The men shifted awkwardly again.

"I'm sure that's the case." Eliot responded in the same bland tone as before, but he wasn't really listening. He was too busy scanning his surroundings for any chance of escape.

The warehouse was maybe five hundred by two hundred yards of mostly open space. A line of crates sat fifteen feet from both the southern and eastern walls, in front of Eliot and to his left. Two crates sat the same distance from the western wall to Eliot's right. The only exit was behind them, to the north. The sniper sat on top of the two-story scaffolding along the eastern wall, halfway down the warehouse — a perfect vantage point.

"You think we came here alone?" Pete's question was belligerent, but Eliot knew it was only to deflect his tension and fear.

Eliot had forgotten just how evil Chapman's smile could be. "Oh, I know you did. But that was an adorable attempt. You think your operations are so secret, but we know how you work. Anonymous tip missions are always small, and this one was close to your base, so it's even smaller." He shook his head at Eliot. "Tsk, tsk, Spencer. Two men? You're slacking."

Eliot's stomach sank. Chapman was right. They'd had so many false tips about weapons lately that he hadn't taken this mission seriously. He should have brought his _best _men: Pete and —

As if on cue, Eliot and Pete's radios crackled.

"What the hell, guys?" Matty asked. "The warehouse isn't that big, so you either forgot about me or are ignoring me. You said you'd keep me in the loop."

Eliot's heart leapt. He'd never been happier to hear Matty's nagging voice over the radio. But how could he get a message through?

"Don't even think about it, Spencer," Chapman drawled. He wasn't an idiot.

Eliot wasn't sure how he kept his voice so steady. "If we don't respond, he's going to know something's wrong and send someone looking for us. So unless you're ready to kill us quickly and get out of here —"

"Fine." Chapman stared at Eliot, but extended his arm to aim his gun at Pete's head. "Tell him you're good, no backup necessary, but you'll be a while. If you say anything I interpret as a code, I will shoot your friend in the face."

Pete glanced at Eliot, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty, but he smirked at Chapman and snapped his fingers in an _Aw, shucks_ gesture. "Damn, you're just too smart for us."

"Shut up," snapped Chapman. "You have five seconds, Spencer."

Mind racing, Eliot wracked his brain for some way, any way, to get the real message across to Matty.

The radio sounded again. "Pete? El? Is everything —"

Keeping his free hand still in the air, Eliot pushed the button on his radio and spoke, but never took his eyes off Chapman. "Yeah, we're clear. Another false tip. Give us fifteen to close it out."

He hoped Matty would argue so he'd have more time to think. How could he possibly tip Matty off?

"You sure?" Matty asked. "Where's Pete?"

Pete. That was it — the perfect code.

Eliot met Pete's eyes and tried to apologize for what he was about to say next. "He's busy, but we're good. Be back soon. Tell Sarah that Pete'll be home in time for dinner."

The anguish on Pete's face hit Eliot like a sucker punch, but — and Eliot hated himself for thinking it — that reaction was exactly what they needed to sell this.

There was a long pause on the other end of the radio. Eliot could only hope that Matty would get the message.

After what seemed like hours, Matty's voice crackled again. "She'll be happy to hear that. I'll be sure to pass it on. See you soon."

Bingo. If they got out of this, Eliot would never bench Matty again, no matter what Pete and Maria said.

But base was ten minutes away. Until the cavalry came, Eliot still needed to stall.

Chapman's eyes glittered with a sick pleasure. "Who's Sarah?"

"My fiancée." Pete's fists were clenched, his voice thick with emotion.

"Aw, how sweet." Chapman stuck out his lower lip into a fake pout. "You shouldn't have made the girl a promise you couldn't keep, Spencer."

Eliot's mind whirled as he tried to figure out a plan. He scanned the warehouse for any chance of escape while deciding on the best way to keep Chapman distracted.

To the left: about a hundred yards to the line of empty crates along the eastern wall, but too many men in between.

To the right: almost a hundred yards to the two crates along the western wall, fewer men in between, but too much empty space.

Behind: more than two hundred yards to the only exit, but too many men and far too much empty space.

In front: more than two hundred yards to the line of crates along the southern wall, but again, too many men and too much empty space.

In front of that: a grinning Chapman.

"We've gotten four fake tips over the past two weeks," Eliot stalled. "Five, including this one. Those all you, Chapman?"

The bastard's grin was enough to answer Eliot's question, but any further thoughts were interrupted when Pete inhaled sharply.

"Chapman?" Pete's voice, previously filled with pain, dropped an octave and took on a tone darker than Eliot had ever heard it.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Eliot had forgotten that while Chapman was known by name amongst the General's forces, very few had actually seen him, and pictures of him were nonexistent. Pete in particular had always lamented that he'd never been able to put a face to the name of Sarah's killer. The last thing Eliot needed right now was for Pete to lose his cool.

He needed to stall and distract — but not just Chapman now.

"Who's your friend, Spencer?" Chapman taunted. "He looks like he's about to pee his pants."

Even though Pete was a few feet away, Eliot could feel him shaking with over four years' worth of pent up hatred and rage. He knew Pete was in sheer agony, utilizing every fiber of his being not to do or say the things he'd prepared for this moment — this showdown with Sarah's killer.

The only way Eliot could keep the situation under control was to keep talking.

"Why are you here, Chapman? Isn't this a little beneath you? Or does Moreau still not trust you to handle anything bigger?" Eliot performed his best imitation of the Rottweiler's smirk.

He drew an immense pleasure from the fact that Chapman's eyes flickered with a familiar embarrassment for a second before he responded.

Eliot used the time to count the number of men Chapman had: twenty. Too many for Eliot to take on with just Pete. And they all had guns; he and Pete only had some knives.

Chapman recovered quickly from Eliot's jab. "This is the biggest job on Moreau's plate right now, Spencer. You. Drawing you out. Do you have any idea how big a price he's put on your head?"

Eliot made a big show of rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, five hundred thousand American dollars, dead or alive. I've heard."

Maybe if they distracted Chapman, they could make a break for the closest crates.

"Actually, it's five-fifty now — and I'm pretty sure he prefers alive." Pete's voice was calm — too calm. He never took his eyes off of Chapman.

"Really? Five-fifty?" Eliot turned his head toward Pete, but kept Chapman in his peripheral vision. "Damn, I would've thought I was worth at least six, dead _or_ alive." He shook his head in disappointment. He needed to keep Pete distracted.

"Aw, it's okay, El. You're worth at least seven-fifty to me. Most definitely alive." Pete's smile didn't reach his eyes. He winked at Eliot, and for a second Eliot thought it was part of the bit they were doing. Then he saw the knife slip from Pete's sleeve into his hand.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Chapman," Pete said in a voice so dark and deadly that Eliot barely recognized it.

Chapman stared at Pete, baffled. He clearly had no idea who Pete was, a fact which — coupled with the bastard's earlier question about Sarah — made Eliot's blood boil. But Eliot forced himself to stay calm; he knew he had to do or say _something_ that would keep the situation from completely disintegrating.

What the hell had they been talking about? The price on Eliot's head.

Perfect.

He took a step forward. Chapman and the men immediately tensed. "All right, Chapman, here's the deal. You want me, right? Fine. I'll come quietly. Just let my friend go."

That got Pete's attention. Finally tearing his gaze from Chapman, he turned so that his entire body was facing Eliot. "Hell no, I am _not_ leaving you here!"

Chapman's mouth twisted into that sick grin of his. "How sweet, Spencer, sacrificing yourself for your friend. But what makes you think I'd even consider that? This is too much fun."

Pete's jaw tightened, and Eliot knew he was imagining — or perhaps trying not to imagine — Chapman's idea of _fun_. "Absolutely not, El, I won't —"

"You will if your commander tells you to, Rodriguez," Eliot snapped.

Shock and confusion spread across Pete's face before they were replaced by something much worse — betrayal. Was Pete actually taking this seriously? Eliot had thought it was obvious from the context — Matty radioing in, the code, the bit about the reward — but maybe Chapman, the mention of Sarah, Chapman's sick question about Sarah, and Chapman's mention of _fun_ had distracted and upset Pete more than Eliot had realized.

Dammit. How could he telegraph to Pete that this was all part of the plan until Matty showed up? Something obvious and stupid that Chapman wouldn't think was anything more than an inside joke …

He arched his eyebrows. "What, were you expecting something different, Rodriguez? They don't call me Commander Dickhead for nothing."

Pete's brow furrowed, and Eliot could see his mind whirring, trying to figure out the plan. At least that was better than betrayal.

Eliot took the chance to shift the focus of the conversation.

"C'mon Chapman." The Rottweiler's taunting smile was back. "We both know that the only reason you're here right now is because you want to prove to Moreau that you're better than me. So let's go. I'll come quietly, and you can do whatever you want to me. I won't even resist. Just let my friend go."

Pete clenched his fists, but said nothing.

"It won't be any fun if you don't resist, will it?" Chapman's drawl morphed into a growl, and his lips curled around his bared teeth like a dog preparing for attack. "And I'd rather like to see your reaction as I make your little friend here squeal like a —"

Without warning, several things happened at once.

Gunshots sounded from somewhere outside. Several of Moreau's men yelped and grunted, collapsing as they were hit.

At the words, _"squeal like a —"_, Pete's rage finally exploded, and he flung his knife at Chapman. He didn't even flinch at the sound of the gunshots.

Eliot, who had seen Pete throw knives enough times to recognize his windup, launched himself at his friend, hoping to protect him from the bullets sure to come when Moreau's men reacted.

The warehouse erupted into chaos as Eliot and Pete fell to the floor, throwing off Pete's aim, and crashed into the legs of two of Moreau's men, knocking them over like bowling pins. Eliot's momentum propelled them past the falling men and into the large, empty space to the right — between the standoff and the two crates along the western wall.

Eliot scrambled to his feet, pulling Pete with him, and yelled, "Go!" shoving Pete toward the crates. Pete didn't need telling twice.

"Don't let them get away!" Chapman shouted. But his men seemed to be having difficulty deciding where to focus their attention — on their escaping captives, their fallen comrades, or whoever was shooting at them — because Eliot counted three seconds before they started firing. And from the relatively small number of bullets being fired in his and Pete's direction, Eliot could tell that their attention was divided by what he dearly hoped was Matty with backup.

He placed himself between Pete and the line of fire as they both ran toward their only chance of survival. He was only ten feet away from the crates when he felt something slam into his back. The bullet and his own momentum knocked him forward; he fell facedown onto the concrete floor and tasted blood.

Pete, who had already reached the crates, shouted "Eliot!" and, before Eliot could do anything to stop him, ran out from cover, grabbed Eliot by the collar, and dragged him the last ten feet. Pete yelped in pain as they both, finally, collapsed in the relative safety provided by the crates.

The air was filled with the sound of gunshots, their echoes, and the _ping_s, _thunk_s, and _plunk_s of bullets hitting nearly every surface — including the crates.

Pete forced Eliot into a sitting position with his back against their makeshift shelter, which was about ten feet wide by five feet deep by five feet tall — barely enough for two men to hide behind.

"El, are you hit?" Pete radiated fear and panic.

"Fine," Eliot choked. His breath had been knocked out of him by the force of the bullet. "Vest …" he managed to say, before he saw the blood on Pete's arm. "You?"

"Just a graze," Pete said. "What the fuck just happened?"

Now that they were relatively safe, Eliot found that the emotion boiling closest to the surface was anger — mostly at himself for being dumb enough to walk into Chapman's trap, but also at Pete, who had made the situation a hundred times worse.

So as Pete peered around the edge of the crate, Eliot threw his arm out and shoved him to the ground.

"I'll tell you what the fuck just happened. You lost your cool and could have gotten us killed. What the fuck were you thinking?"

Pete's face turned red. He was suddenly angrier than Eliot had ever seen him, and he punctuated his yelled words with a shove of his own. "Are you kidding me? You're the one who was going to just hand yourself over! What the fuck were _you_ thinking?"

"I was bluffing, you moron, in a desperate attempt to keep you from doing exactly what you just did!"

Pete's anger faltered. "Bluffing?"

"Yes, bluffing. Did you really think I was just going to turn myself over to Moreau without a fight? I'm not stupid. I was trying to stop _you_ from being stupid and getting yourself killed!"

Pete's eyes flashed again with anger, which then dissolved into something much, much worse — raw, anguished pain. He placed his hand on his chest, over the spot where Sarah's picture sat. "You had no right to do that," he snarled. "I had him. I could have killed him."

Eliot was conscious of bullets flying all around them, lodging themselves into the crate or missing it completely, but in that moment, he didn't care. Pete — sweet, funny, Pete, who was better at matchmaking than being a soldier — Pete Rodriguez wanted to _kill_ Chapman? His jaw dropped in astonishment.

Yes, he'd watched the darkness come over Pete as they spoke with Chapman, but for some reason he'd thought Pete just wanted to hurt the bastard, to make him suffer, like Chapman had tortured Sarah years ago. It wasn't until Pete put it into words that Eliot realized just how much losing Sarah had truly traumatized his friend.

"Pete, you don't mean that."

"Like hell I don't!" Pete attempted to shove Eliot again, but the fight went out of him halfway through. His shoulders slumped, and his face contorted as if every breath was pure agony. "He tortured and _raped_ her, Eliot." Pete's voice shook with so many emotions — with anguish, with rage, with hatred — it was a wonder he could speak at all. "I found her in the living room. She called for me —" His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, leaning back against the crate.

A knot had formed in the pit of Eliot's stomach. Pete had never before spoken this bluntly about what had happened to Sarah. The first and only time Eliot had heard the full story — from Pete himself — it had been told haltingly, while Pete choked back his emotions and searched for the words and euphemisms least likely to torment him with horrific images, like _beat_, _violated_, and _passed away_. But, even after that terrible retelling, Eliot had never seen Pete this … broken. He reached out to place a hand on his friend's arm when Pete looked up again, his face streaked with tears.

"She called for me while he raped her, Eliot." His gaze was steady now, but his voice was not, and his tears fell freely. "She called for me, and I wasn't there. I know because when I found her, she didn't recognize me at first, but she was crying out my name. I held her in my arms, battered and bloody, while she died. I watched as she took her last breath and the light in her beautiful eyes went out forever. We were supposed to get married, and that fucking bastard took away our life together! He stole her away and left me here alone." Pete grasped his head between both hands and brought his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth, as if he could squeeze away the horrid memories. "Did you see the sick smile on his face when he asked who she was? He probably doesn't even remember her!" He sobbed into his knees for a few seconds before snapping his head up to glare at Eliot. "So yes, I want to kill him, and you took away the first chance I've had in four years!"

Pete's outburst of grief hit Eliot as hard and sudden as a hit to the solar plexus. The resulting nausea was so strong it made him gag; he forced himself to swallow the bile and take slow, deep breaths until it passed. When it did, all that remained was a white-hot rage, boiling just below the surface. Never before had he loathed Chapman and Moreau more than in this moment for what they'd done to Sarah — and what they'd done to Pete. Pete had been young with a full life ahead of him; he was supposed to be living happily with the woman he loved, not thirsting for revenge against her rapist and killer. But Eliot refused to let his friend sacrifice part of his soul to get that revenge.

He grabbed Pete by the upper arms, like Juan always did with him. "Pete, listen to me. You can't go up against Chapman. He will kill you. And even if he doesn't —"

Eliot stopped. He rarely spoke aloud about the things he'd done in his past, but if there was ever a time Pete needed to hear it, it was now.

He took a deep breath in an effort to calm the nausea. "Take it from someone who's done it before, Pete. Killing a person — it changes you. Sarah loved you. And I know for a fact that she would never want you to do something like that for her."

Pete's eyes welled with more tears, and he bit his lower lip so hard Eliot thought he'd bite through it. He brought a shaking hand to his face and slumped back against the crate in an almost defeated manner.

The bullets continued to whiz past them. Too many had already penetrated the crates, and one passed so close to Eliot's head that the surge of heated air made his ear pop. Their makeshift shelter wouldn't last much longer — they needed to get out of there, and for that he needed Pete to get it together.

He felt a surge of loathing for himself, but he knew what he had to do. He gripped Pete's arms and shook him as hard as he could.

"I need you to fucking focus, Rodriguez! I can't have you losing it right now. We need to figure out a way to get out of here alive!"

Eliot's change in demeanor was so sudden he was afraid he'd given Pete whiplash, both physically and emotionally. Pete's eyes widened in shock, and, once he'd closed his mouth, he gulped. Then he nodded slowly, closing his eyes tight. His face slowly relaxed as he breathed in and out, in and out, forcing the hatred, rage, and pain away.

After a few seconds, his eyes snapped open, and the only thing there was resolve. His lips curled into the tiniest of smiles that didn't reach the rest of his face. "Yes, sir, Commander Dickhead."

Eliot smirked to hide the lump in his throat. Never in his life would he be capable of the strength and courage Pete had just displayed. "Damn right, I am. And you can bitch at me all you want once we get out of here."

Pete took another deep breath, frowning at the chaos around them. "Are we sure this is us?"

"Who else would it be? Matty got the message and sent the cavalry."

Pete winced at the memory of the coded phrase, and Eliot immediately wished he hadn't mentioned it. But Pete recovered quickly and asked, "Yeah, but why can't we hear them on the radios? Wouldn't they be telling us they're here?"

"Not necessarily. They might be on a different frequency." Eliot turned the dial on his own radio. "Matty knew we couldn't talk, so maybe he switched so they wouldn't give us away."

At that moment, Eliot's radio crackled to life. "… sign of Spencer and Rodriguez? Are they alive?" Sure enough, it was Matty's voice.

Someone responded, "No sir, no sign yet, still under fire —"

Eliot snatched his mouthpiece. "Ramirez, I could kiss you right now."

Pete cracked a smile, and Matty actually laughed — his relief was palpable even over the lousy radio connection.

"Well, I don't know how Maria would feel about that, but it's good to know my options are open. Don't worry, guys — we be the cavalry."

Eliot rolled his eyes. When he'd first used that phrase, he'd gotten odd looks and grumbles about "American cowboys," but now it seemed like everyone and their mother in the San Lorenzan army used it every chance they got. He knew Matty had been waiting for a moment like this to break it out and throw it in Eliot's face.

Pete shook his head furiously and grabbed Eliot's arm. "El, the wedding. Matty can't come here. You have to tell him —"

"You'd better not be with the 'em, Ramirez," Eliot warned into the radio. But in spite of the promise to Maria, he secretly hoped Matty was leading the cavalry — the man's tactical prowess was unmatched in San Lorenzo. If anyone could save them, it was Matty.

"Don't worry, Commander Dickhead, still grounded." Matty's voice crackled resentfully. Relief flooded Pete's face as Eliot tried to hide his own dismay. "The General's in charge on this one."

Eliot and Pete exchanged a wide-eyed look. Pete's mouth formed an _O_, which he covered with one hand. "Oh, he's going to be pissed," he said slowly, as if the General's wrath was the only thing scarier than their current situation.

"You think?" Eliot snapped. The General never went out into the field; he always let the commanders do that, while he stayed on base and monitored progress. Eliot was pretty sure he knew why this was different, but hoped he was wrong: this was the first fire fight in which Eliot had been trapped, and Juan probably couldn't help but be reminded of when his son had been killed. Eliot had told Juan he'd take care of Pete, but he'd also promised Anita and Maria he'd do his best to keep Juan safe.

Dammit. At this point, assuming they got out of here alive, getting chewed out by the General was the least of Eliot's worries.

"What the hell were you thinking, Ramirez, letting him come out here?"

Eliot could practically hear Matty's eye roll. "You know, you're right, Spencer. Why didn't I just tell General Juan Flores, my commanding officer and future father-in-law, not to, you know, _command his army_? I definitely have that type of power. We all know he listens to me." Once again, Matty's resentment was audible.

Pete shot Eliot a glare that said, _"Really? You're doing this now?"_ He snatched the mouthpiece from Eliot's hand and said aloud, "It's all right, Matty. Listen, we're working on a way to get out of here, so —"

"Just keep your heads down." Matty's tone changed completely when speaking to Pete — it was almost gentle. Maybe he'd guessed the effects of Eliot's code. "The cavalry's coming."

"Roger that." Pete tossed the mouthpiece roughly back at Eliot. It bounced off of Eliot's chest.

"You could have used your own radio, you know," Eliot muttered.

"No time to find the frequency before the two of you got into a bitchfest when we're _literally_ dodging bullets." Pete grunted the last word, ducking to avoid a piece of crate that had been blown off by a well-placed shot. "We need to find better cover before these things turn into Swiss cheese."

"Without getting turned into Swiss cheese ourselves," Eliot added.

Bullets were flying all around, and the next nearest row of crates, along the south wall, was over fifty feet away. No way to reach it without exposing themselves — a kill box.

"You got any weapons besides knives?" Eliot asked.

Pete smirked and pulled up his pant leg to reveal a pistol in an ankle holster. "The idiots really should have frisked us. Thank God you scare the shit out of them."

Eliot wasn't sure God was someone to thank for that, but under the circumstances he was grateful that his reputation had preceded him. He pulled two knives from his shoulder holster; if needed, there were three more in his ankle holsters.

Pete cocked an eyebrow. "Do _you_ have any weapons besides knives, Mr. I-Don't-Like-Guns?"

"That's _Commander_ I-Don't-Like-Guns, thank you very much."

"Well a fat lot of good knives are going to do you." Pete nodded toward the south wall. "We need to make a run for those crates. Since I have a gun and you don't, I'll lay down some cover fire and then follow you." He ejected his magazine and checked it. "I got fifteen shots." He reinserted the magazine, which snapped into place with a _click_, and cocked the pistol. "How fast can you run?"

"No way. I'm not going to just leave you here while I —"

"What about 'I'll follow you' did you not understand?" Pete peered around the edge of one of the crates. "We can either move now or argue while our cover gets shot to pieces." He got into a crouch. "This isn't a debate, El. On three, okay?"

Eliot growled, but sheathed his knives and prepared to run. "When this is over, Rodriguez —"

"Yeah, yeah." Pete smirked. "You can bitch me out. One … two … three." He sprang to his feet and starting firing over the top of the crate.

Eliot took a deep breath and ran into the open space. Bullets flew around him, but Pete's cover fire seemed to be working. After five shots, Eliot heard Pete follow behind, firing once every few paces.

He was twenty feet from the line of crates when he heard Pete gasp, "El!"

The world seemed to slow down. Still running, Eliot glanced back toward Pete, but as he did, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

He looked across the warehouse to the eastern wall, one story up — and found himself staring directly into Chapman's eyes. The man was crouched on the scaffolding, pointing a rifle right at Eliot, one hand on the trigger. His other hand was clutching his abdomen, which was bleeding around Pete's knife.

Eliot knew it was too late to react. Chapman had been a sniper in the British army before joining Moreau. He never missed.

Eliot was dead.

The bastard smiled and fired. Even amid the cacophony of the warehouse, Eliot heard a single shot from an AK-47 ring out, clear as day.

Pete yelled his name, and a form smashed into him. He and Pete slammed into the floor, skidding for a few yards.

Pete grabbed the back of Eliot's jacket and pulled them both to their feet. He yelled, "Go!" shoving Eliot toward cover. Eliot was aware of a vague sense of déjà vu, but he didn't need telling twice.

He covered the remaining fifteen feet in three strides and dove behind the line of crates. Pete collapsed behind him a second later.

Eliot leaned his head back against one of the crates and closed his eyes. They sat in silence for a few moments, catching their breath.

"Thanks," Eliot panted. He opened his eyes and turned his head, still resting against the crate, toward Pete. "I'd be dead if you hadn't done that."

Pete, too, was sitting up and resting his head against the crate, eyes closed. He looked a bit pale as he panted.

Eliot scanned their surroundings. About fifteen feet away stood the south wall — the one opposite where they'd entered. In their rush for cover, they'd moved even farther from the only exit.

"Shit," Eliot grunted. "These crates will last longer, since there's more of them, but they won't hold out forever. At some point, if the cavalry hasn't broken through, we might need to make a break for it."

"Yeah," Pete breathed. "That's not going to happen."

Eliot whipped around to look at Pete, who looked even paler than he had a few seconds earlier. He was clutching his left side. Only then did Eliot realize that something red was seeping through his fingers.

"Jesus!" Eliot scrambled to his knees. "You're hit! Dammit, Pete, let me see it."

Pete moved his hand. As he did, Eliot's vision tunneled, and his stomach dropped like a rock.

Pete revealed a wound larger than his palm — a huge, gaping hole surrounded by tattered skin and muscle. Peering in, Eliot couldn't see much aside from blood, but what he did see made him shiver, turning his stomach into a block of ice and freezing him in place. Bits of bone were mixed with fragments of Kevlar, but the bullet was nowhere to be seen. There was no exit wound.

Pete chuckled weakly. "I think I found the armor-piercing rounds."

Yes. The shot had sliced through Pete's vest like it was made of cotton rather than Kevlar. This was far beyond Eliot's battlefield medic skills — he couldn't place a tourniquet on Pete's abdomen, and there was far too much damage for him to attempt to remove the bullet, even if he could find it. Hell, even the military doctors hadn't yet succeeded in saving any of the men shot with A.P. rounds. Even when they did get to the soldier before he bled out or died of internal injuries, it was next-to-impossible to remove the Kevlar, bone fragments, and shrapnel from the shattered round without causing more damage or some sort of infection.

Eliot's heart pounded and his breath came in spurts as he thought about what that meant for Pete.

_Snap out of it, Spencer, _he told himself. _Remember your training._

Right. Focus. He had to do _something_ to help Pete. He could do this. He wracked his brain for the medical training he'd learned years ago.

Through the years, his sergeant barked: _"What's the first thing you do, Spencer?"_

Stabilize the patient. Clear the area around the wound and put pressure on it.

He took off Pete's jacket and radio, which had been damaged. It took several tries to force his fingers to work. He kept the jacket, but tossed the radio away.

He pressed the jacket to the wound to try to slow the bleeding. His hands shook hard, making his movements rough — Pete's resultant cry of pain sliced through Eliot's heart like a knife.

_"Ignore the distractions, Spencer!"_ his sergeant snapped._ "Focus on the job at hand. What's next?"_

Call for help.

Eliot snatched his own radio, which was still functional. "I've got a man down! I need a medic ASAP! A.P. round to the abdomen, south side of the warehouse!" His voice, unlike the rest of him, was surprisingly steady.

He placed a hand on Pete's shoulder and said gently, "Listen, Pete, we're going to get you out of here. You're going to be all right."

Pete was ghastly pale. A sheen of sweat covered his face, but in spite of that, he shivered violently.

"You have a t-terrible p-poker face."

Eliot forced a smirk, even as dread cast a shadow over him. "I have a great poker face, Rodriguez, but I don't need one right now. You're just in shock. Try to relax, okay? They're on their way."

As if it had heard him, the radio came to life. The connection was spotty and the sounds of gunshots and explosions were echoed in the message, so Eliot only caught every few words.

"Can't … outside … under fire … try … ASAP …"

The chill that had settled in Eliot's stomach started to spread through his veins. Fear flickered in Pete's eyes.

"They're n-not c-coming, are they?" His teeth chattered.

No. This couldn't be happening. Eliot wouldn't allow it.

"Then we'll go to them." He lifted Pete's arm on the uninjured side and wrapped it around his shoulder. He reached across Pete's body and started to stand up when Pete yelped loudly in pain.

"Don't!" he whimpered, tears in his eyes. "You'll get us b-both k-killed. We d-didn't make it with b-both of us r-running and one of us f-firing. I'll j-just slow you d-down. We'd n-never make it."

"I don't care." Eliot's voice was no longer steady, and he shivered, too. He refused to sit idly by when Pete needed help.

"D-don't be an idiot, C-Commander D-Dickhead. S-stay here. P-please."

Eliot reluctantly lowered Pete back to the ground. Pete closed his eyes, and the tiniest bit of color returned to his cheeks.

"B-better. Stay here."

Even though he knew it was pointless, Eliot shouted into the radio again. "I need a medic now! Hurry, dammit! Please!"

His voice gave out as his professionalism faded into panic. The radio sputtered a response, but he was no longer listening. He pressed the jacket against the wound even harder, but it was nearly saturated with the warm blood Pete so desperately needed. The color that had briefly returned to Pete's face was gone now. Eliot willed the wound to stop draining the life from his friend, praying to anyone or anything who might be listening.

Pete opened his eyes with enormous effort. "I got him, didja see? Ch-Chapman?"

Eliot tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat. The ice in his veins was spreading quickly now. It was headed for his heart, and he couldn't stop it.

"Yeah, I saw," he croaked. "He's hurtin' real bad. Nice shot, Rodriguez."

Pete smirked. "I was … aiming for his n-neck. Oops." He attempted a chuckle which quickly morphed into a cough. "After all that p-practice … killed by irony. Call this one the F-fatal Sh-sh-shooting Incident."

Eliot's eyes burned. He couldn't have spoken even if he had known what to say.

Pete smiled weakly. "S'joke, El. Laugh."

"It's not very funny," Eliot rasped.

"Wow." Pete somehow managed to sound annoyed. "T-tough room. Gimme a break. M'dyin' here."

The chill finally reached Eliot's heart, which froze with painful acuteness. Pete was dying, and there was nothing Eliot could do to stop it. The feeling of utter helplessness nearly overwhelmed him.

But Pete had made a joke — several jokes, in fact — while _dying_. Eliot's vision blurred at the effort his friend had made to get one last laugh out of him. The least he could do was oblige with an appropriate response.

So he forced a smile and even managed a small chuckle. "You're a laugh riot, Rodriguez."

"I know." Pete returned the smile, and Eliot felt a crack form in his ice cold heart.

Pete tried to laugh again but erupted into a violent coughing fit instead. He spat blood with each convulsion, and drops trickled down his chin.

Eliot's stomach did a somersault as his sergeant's voice came back to him: _"Blood in the mouth almost always means a punctured lung. The patient won't have long before drowning in his own blood."_

For Pete's sake, Eliot hoped the unconsciousness of blood loss would come first. He used his sleeve to wipe the blood from Pete's face.

When the coughing had subsided, Pete looked at Eliot, eyes filled with tears, and sobbed, "M'sorry I wasn't better."

Eliot's frozen heart shattered into a million pieces. He placed a hand on Pete's shoulder and looked his friend straight in the eyes. "Hey, listen to me. You were great, Pete. You — you saved my life." He wanted to ask, _Why?_ but he couldn't form the words.

But Pete seemed to understand. "'C-cause I messed up, getting angry, throwing my knife. M'sorry. Made things worse. Had to fix it."

"No." Eliot felt a pang of guilt for being angry before. "It wasn't your fault, okay? I shouldn't have I yelled at you. I'm sorry. You did great."

Pete tried to shake his head, but he no longer had the strength, so it just rocked back and forth a little. He wasn't shivering anymore, but now he slurred his words. "No. You were right. She wouldn't have wanted me to kill for her. You stopped me. Thank you. I shoulda been better." He swallowed. "Only ever wanted you to be proud of me."

The lump in Eliot's throat made it nearly impossible to speak, but Pete needed to know.

"I am proud of you, Pete. I always have been."

Pete smiled, and the heaviness that had settled onto Eliot's chest, making it hard to breathe, lightened slightly.

"Sarah would be proud of you, too."

Pete's eyes widened, and the tears finally started to fall. "You think so?"

"I know so."

The thought seemed to relax Pete, and his eyelids drooped. "S'all I ever wanted."

The radio, which had been emitting fuzz for several minutes, suddenly sounded crisp and sharp with a familiar voice.

"Medics, have you found Spencer?" It was Matty. Panic was audible in his voice, as well as something else Eliot wasn't sure he'd heard there before — fear? "Is Rodriguez okay? Eliot, what's going on?"

Pete's eyes snapped open. They were clear and focused now. Somehow he even found the strength to push himself away from the crate and grab Eliot's arm. He shook his head vigorously.

"No! He can't come here … the wedding. We promised!"

Eliot hesitated. Matty deserved to know what was happening. Pete was his friend.

"Pete, just talk to him, he needs to —"

"No!" Pete erupted into coughing again, but he continued to shake his head. "No. If he finds out … he'll try to come … too dangerous … the wedding!"

For one long second, Eliot froze. Pete was right. Matty would try to come if he knew Pete was dying — just like Eliot would have done. But if Eliot was in Matty's shoes, he'd want to know, to say goodbye.

"Eliot, answer me!" Matty ordered. Eliot could only hear fear in his voice now.

"Please, El," Pete begged.

One look at the desperation in Pete's eyes, and Eliot grabbed his radio and tossed it away. Matty didn't matter right now. Only Pete. "It's all right. He won't come here."

Pete relaxed again, exhausted. Pleading had taken up most of his remaining strength. He collapsed back against the crate and closed his eyes. His breath was coming in gasps now.

"El, promise me … you'll get him to the wedding. … Promised Maria … They get the happy ending, remember?"

Eliot couldn't respond at first. Pete was dying, and all he cared about was Matty and Maria getting their fairy tale ending. "I promise. He'll be there."

"Tell 'em m'sorry … wanted to be best man …" His lips quirked up slightly. "Maybe they'll name a kid after me …"

Pete blinked slowly a few times, tears streaming down his cheeks. His lip trembled, and when he finally met Eliot's gaze, Eliot saw one emotion above all others — fear.

"God, why now?" Pete sobbed. "Why not right after Sarah? … Or before I met you? Or before matchmaking? Or after —" His voice cracked. "After the wedding? Why now? I don't want to go now."

Eliot was numb from the chill inside him, and helplessness washed over him again. "Pete, it's going to be okay. Just try to relax."

"I just … I want …"

Eliot's heart stopped as Pete's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over from his sitting position against the crate.

Eliot caught him before he hit the floor. "Open your eyes, Pete! Stay with me!"

Please God, not yet.

He lowered Pete onto the cold, hard concrete of the warehouse. He ripped off his own jacket and gently placed it under Pete's head as a pillow.

"Pete, please …"

Pete's eyes opened, but they were unfocused. It took a moment for him to look at Eliot. "You were right. … 'Tell Sarah Pete'll be home for dinner.' … I will be." He smiled softly. "I hope she makes spaghetti … s'my favorite …"

The numbness inside Eliot morphed into an aching emptiness. "I bet she will. She'll make it every night for you."

"Love her … spaghetti …" Pete blinked heavily. Then his eyes sharpened, and he seemed to really see Eliot for the first time. "El … El! Lissen …"

He grappled desperately for Eliot's shirt, but he was too weak to grip anything. Eliot grabbed Pete's hand and brought it up against his chest.

"I'm here, Pete. Right here." The emptiness swelled.

"Need … thank you." Pete was coughing every few words now. Every breath was a gurgling struggle between the air and blood in his lungs. "After Sarah … I broke … ws'angry ... hated … but th'Gen'rl … told me … said you didn't … have anyone … so I made friends … but you saved me … made me happy. … Th-thank you … y'rmy … best friend."

Eliot squeezed Pete's hand tightly. "Pete, you —" His voice faltered. "You're my best friend, too. After Moreau, you helped me —"

Pete moved his head like he was trying to nod. "I know … Promise you won't … close up again … not like me … Death's too easy … but so's life … if you never live it." He managed to smile. "Nice, huh? … Waited fr'ever … t'say that."

He tried to chuckle. Instead, the air caught in his throat, and he gasped for breaths that he couldn't catch again, and again, and again.

The emptiness gaped like a cavern inside Eliot, pushing against every organ with an almost unbearable pressure. Pete didn't have long now.

"Promise!" Pete gasped.

Eliot could never say no to Pete.

"I promise." He didn't know what else to say.

The tension left Pete's body, and his face filled with understanding. "S'okay … s'better … you c'n … do more … good … 'nme …"

"No, Pete, don't say that. You —"

But Pete didn't seem to be able to hear him anymore. "S'okay … s'better … want this … s'better … thanks … El …"

His eyes lost focus, and he stared at nothing for a second. Then Eliot saw a spark, something he'd never seen in Pete's eyes before, except in Sarah's picture — complete and utter love. Pete's lips formed a small smile, and in that one eternal moment, all the fear and anger and pain were gone. For the first time since Eliot had met him, he looked truly, genuinely happy.

"Sarah …" he breathed.

Then Pete's grip on Eliot's hand loosened, and his arm grew heavy. His face relaxed, and a tiny shudder went through his body as he let out one final breath. Eliot watched the spark in Pete's eyes fade to nothing before his eyelids fluttered shut for the last time.

The emptiness in Eliot's chest swelled like a balloon until he felt he might explode from the pressure and pain.

"No … Pete!" He grabbed Pete by the shirt and shook him hard, begging. "Wake up … please, wake up …"

But deep down he knew it was too late. He'd seen the light in Pete's eyes go out, like he'd seen with so many others.

Pete was gone.

Stunned, Eliot collapsed against the crate. He pulled Pete into his arms and clutched him to his chest, rocking him like a child, in the vain hope that maybe it would keep him from being swallowed by the emptiness. He stared vacantly at a spot on the floor as he cradled his lost friend.

.

.

.

He didn't know how long he sat there.

He was vaguely aware of people gathered around him. They took Pete away from him. His arms went limp, falling into his lap.

He continued to stare at the spot on the floor.

Someone grabbed his arm. "C'mon, Spencer."

He sat in the back of the ambulance, staring at nothing as someone checked him for injuries, poked him, shone a light in his face.

Some people worked on Pete, but Eliot couldn't understand why.

The ambulance door opened.

"Let's go, Spencer."

Eliot wouldn't move. Not without Pete.

Someone dragged him from the ambulance and he stumbled. He followed Pete as they carried him into a building.

_Base._

Inside, he heard a strangled cry. "Pete!"

Matty.

Eliot followed Pete into a room.

The door closed.

Matty sank to his knees next to the bed where Pete lay. He touched Pete's arm.

"Pete …" Matty whispered. He dropped his head and bent over Pete.

Eliot couldn't stop staring at Pete. He was covered in blood, but he looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping.

"What happened, Eliot?" Matty was talking. He sounded far away and weird, like he was having trouble forming words. "It was supposed to be a simple fucking mission, remember?"

Eliot wasn't listening. He didn't take his eyes off of Pete.

Matty was standing now. "Eliot, talk to me." Louder.

Eliot continued to stare at Pete.

"What the fuck did you do?" Matty was right next to Eliot now. His voice was very loud. "What happened?"

Matty was grabbing Eliot's shirt. Eliot stumbled back, into the wall.

Matty's face was right in front of Eliot's. It was red and twisted, like he'd been hurt. His eyes were watery. Tears had rolled down his cheeks.

Eliot frowned. Matty never cried.

He looked back to Pete.

"Dammit, Eliot! Talk to me!" Matty was shaking him against the wall.

"Matty, that's enough." Juan. He sounded odd, too. "I need to speak with Eliot."

"No! I want to hear his God-damned explanation!" Matty was yelling now.

But Matty never yelled.

"Matty, please." Juan sounded far away. "I need to speak with Eliot. Alone."

Matty's voice got very quiet and croaky. "Eliot … alone. Right."

"Please, Matty, don't —" Juan didn't finish.

"No, you — you talk with Eliot. Sorry to interru —" Matty's voice stopped working. He breathed in and out, slowly and loudly. "Right. I'll go."

"Matty —"

The door slammed.

Silence, except for Eliot's heart pounding in his ears.

He still didn't take his eyes off Pete.

"Eliot." Juan again. Eliot felt a hand on his arm. "Tell me what happened."

"It was an ambush," a voice said. It took Eliot a second to realize it was his own.

"I know," said Juan.

The hand squeezed Eliot's arm again, and he saw where he was — a spare room in the barracks.

He finally tore his eyes from Pete and looked at Juan.

Juan's face was sad, but he looked strange. He was dressed like Eliot: San Lorenzan military fatigues, bulletproof vest, radio, gun.

Eliot frowned. Those weren't the General's normal clothes.

"You came out after us." His voice was flat. "You shouldn't have done that. You could have been injured or killed."

"I know," Juan whispered. "But Matty said you were —"

"You're a fucking general." Eliot's voice still sounded odd to him. Foreign. "You have commanders to do that. That was stupid."

He looked away. Back to Pete.

"I know." Juan squeezed Eliot's arm a third time. "What happened?"

"You know what happened. There was an ambush. We were trapped. The cavalry came. We took cover."

"Eliot," Juan said quietly. "What happened to _Pete_?"

At the sound of the name, Eliot was thrown from the nothingness, and his insides boiled with a white-hot rage. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Pete by the jacket, and shook him.

"You stupid mother-fucking son of a bitch!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "You fucking bastard!"

He continued to swear at Pete in each of the half-dozen languages he knew, over and over and over. He shook Pete as hard as he possibly could.

Pete's head lolled, which just made Eliot angrier.

"What the fuck were you thinking, you fucking asshole? Why?"

He yelled and shook Pete until his vision blurred and his voice started to rasp.

He half-hoped that Pete would wake up and say with a laugh, "Okay, okay, I got it! Jeez, El, relax!"

But he finally realized that his best friend would never laugh again. He sank onto the bed and clutched Pete to his chest in a bear hug.

"Damn you, Pete," he choked.

He was ashamed to realize that he couldn't cry. His breath came in spurts, but they were dry sobs. There were tears in his eyes, but they refused to fall.

Not even for the man who had sacrificed everything to save him.

What was wrong with him?

"Eliot," Juan rasped, and once again, he brought Eliot back to the present.

Eliot's breathing slowed, and he lowered Pete gently, reverently, back down onto the bed. He used his shirt sleeve and tenderly wiped Pete's face clean of the blood, tears, and grime. When he was finished, he was struck again by how peaceful Pete looked.

Then he saw his own hands — he looked down and found that he was covered in Pete's blood. He stood up and backed away from the bed, horrified. He backed right into Juan.

He spun around.

"Eliot." Juan grabbed him by the arms, but Eliot shrugged them off.

"No." He shook his head, backing away from Juan, too. "Don't you dare try to tell me _anything_, Flores! This is my fault. It was _my_ mission. _I_ didn't bring enough backup. Chapman —" His voice gave out. "Chapman was there to grab _me_. But we took cover! We were gonna get out of there alive!"

He backed all the way into the wall. He felt lightheaded. It was too hot. The room was shrinking.

"Chapman shot at _me_, not him. Why did he push me away?"

He looked at Pete, and the tightness in his chest swelled until he couldn't breathe. He gasped for air.

"You stupid son of a bitch!"

He meant to shout it, but it came out as a sob.

"Eliot." Juan reached out to touch Eliot's arm. "Listen to me. It wasn't your fault."

"Shut up!" Eliot pushed Juan away. "I should be lying there, and he should be standing here! This isn't fair!"

"Of course it's not fair!" Juan shouted.

Eliot froze. He'd never heard the General raise his voice like that.

"Was it fair what happened to Berto?" Juan yelled, eyes welling with tears. "Was it fair what Chapman did to Sarah? Is it fair what Damien Moreau has done to my country? None of this is fair, Eliot! If it was, we wouldn't be here!"

Eliot mouth gaped. Juan never lost control. Ever.

"Eliot." Juan was calmer now, but his face was filled with grief. "If you were lying there, Pete wouldn't be standing here right now. He wasn't strong enough for that."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

Juan sighed, and his eyes, if possible, grew even sadder. "It means that he wanted to die, Eliot."

"Don't say that," Eliot said vehemently. "That's not true!"

"Did he ever tell you what happened when he first got here? When he came to us, he was grief-stricken and angry and broken. He hated Moreau and he hated Chapman, but he hated himself even more. On the first anniversary of Sarah's death … he tried to kill himself."

Eliot shook his head. "No. I don't believe that."

Pete would never have done that.

"Didn't he tell you?" Juan frowned. "Eliot, until you came to us, he shut everyone out. Berto and Matty tried again and again. They were able to bring him out a little. Then you came, and after what happened with Escobar, he latched onto you. He opened up, came out of his shell. He was a completely different Pete than we'd known before."

_"After Sarah, I broke, was angry … hated … but you saved me, made me happy. Thank you, El."_

Eliot's eyes stung with tears.

"Pete never recovered from losing Sarah. Not even with your help. And he was never going to. Didn't you notice how reckless he always was?"

Eliot _had_ noticed, but he just thought it was Pete being Pete. Goofy, ridiculous, cracking jokes, and trying to show off. Trying to be like Eliot.

"Because of me …"

"No, because of Pete," Juan said firmly. "I had hoped that you could help him, and you did, more than I ever expected." He shook his head sadly. "But it wasn't enough. He wanted this, Eliot. If you were lying on that bed instead of him, he would have broken completely. If he'd lost you on top of everything else … you'd both be lying there."

_"S'okay. Want this."_

"But why me?" Eliot rasped. "Of all people … I don't deserve it."

"He thought you did."

_"S'better. You can do more good than me."_

"No," Eliot sobbed, shaking his head. "It's not better."

"If he wanted it, how would you have preferred it to happen? He died saving someone he cared about. There's no more honorable death than that."

"I'm sorry." Eliot's vision blurred. "I said I'd take care of him."

Juan looked over at Pete. "He's happy now, Eliot."

Eliot followed Juan's gaze, and forced his feet to move him over to the bed. He reached out and squeezed Pete's hand. Once again, he had to admit that Pete looked peaceful.

No. More than that. At peace.

Finally.

He was with Sarah now. He'd finally found his happy ending.

_"El, promise me. They get the happy ending, remember?"_

Eliot started to gasp for air again. "The wedding. Matty —"

Juan's eyes filled with tears. "Let's go find him."

"He blames me." And he was right. This was all Eliot's fault.

"No, he doesn't. People grieve in different ways, and Matty is no stranger to grief. But he's strong. And he has Maria. It's you I'm worried about, Eliot."

_"Promise you won't close up again. Not like me. Death's too easy, but so's life if you never live it."_

"I'll be fine." Eliot's voice was flat. Emotionless. He could feel the emptiness creeping back again.

.

.

.

Eliot forced the shovel into the ground and heaved the dirt away. He felt the blisters forming on his hands, the sweat starting to bead on his forehead. But he kept digging.

He knew he shouldn't be here. It wasn't safe. Juan had tried to talk him out of it — they all had — but he'd refused to hear it.

It had been the third morning meeting without Pete. It had been subdued, but not just because of the grief. Eliot had never noticed before how many jokes Pete usually cracked during their discussions. He'd somehow made the meetings fun. Meetings in which they discussed military strategy and how Moreau was terrorizing San Lorenzo.

How in the hell had he been able to do that?

Eliot hadn't been listening. He was staring at a vacant spot on the table. He'd been doing that a lot lately. The emptiness was overwhelming.

Then he heard Pete's name, and the still fresh pain in his heart threw him back into the present.

"Now, about Pete," the General was saying. "We'll have the funeral this afternoon, and then he'll be buried here in the capital —"

"No he won't," Eliot heard himself say.

The room went silent and all eyes turned to him. He'd barely spoken to anyone since the warehouse, and he hadn't spoken up in the meetings at all. Too much emptiness.

"Eliot —"

"He needs to be buried next to Sarah."

"But that's hours away from here," a voice said. "From anything. Moreau's men are still out in force. It's too dangerous to send anyone."

"We're not going to send just anyone," said Eliot. "I'll do it."

Another pause. The voice spoke again. "Spencer, you and Pete were close. I know how you must be feeling —"

"No, Gonzales, I don't think you do," Eliot snarled. Anger was the only emotion he felt nowadays, but only in the brief reprieves from the emptiness. "Unless your best friend died pushing you out of the way of a bullet that was meant for you, you have no _fucking_ clue how I'm feeling right now."

Matty spoke up. "Eliot's right. Pete should be buried next to Sarah. I'm going, too."

"Like hell you are," snapped Eliot. "I won't be responsible for bringing your body back, too, for Maria to cry over three days before her wedding."

Matty hit the table. "Dammit, Eliot! He's my friend too!" His voice broke.

"That's enough," the General said firmly. "I'm sorry, but it's too dangerous. Pete would understand."

"Dammit, Juan, I don't need your fucking permission!" Eliot shouted, standing up.

It took him a second to register the shocked looks around the room, and another to understand them. He'd never spoken to the General like that. Ever. Not in this room, not when he was in an official capacity. Eliot usually chewed people out for that type of thing.

_"That's an awfully disrespectful way to address a general."_

"… sir," he added feebly, sitting down again. He stared at his hands, and his face grew hot.

"Please give us the room," the General said to the commanders, and Eliot winced at the tightness in his voice.

The commanders filed out quickly, until only Eliot, Matty, and the General were left. None of them said anything for a few moments.

"Eliot." When Juan spoke, his voice was kind. There was nothing there but concern. "Moreau's men are waiting for you to do something like this. They will find you and kill you. It's too dangerous. I understand what you want to do, and why, but I can't allow it."

"Juan," Matty pleaded. "Eliot's right. He should be buried next to Sarah. He would've wanted —"

"He would definitely _not_ have wanted the two of you to do something stupid and reckless on his behalf," Juan countered.

Eliot continued to stare at his hands. "I don't care how dangerous it is. I need to do this."

Juan's voice was quiet. "Eliot, Pete gave his life to save yours. Why are you so quick to throw it away?"

Eliot's head snapped up, and he jumped to his feet. "I owe. Him. This," he said, punctuating each word with a tap of his finger on the table. His voice shook with barely contained rage. "I can handle Moreau's men. I trained them. And I meant it when I said I didn't need your permission. I'm doing this whether you agree to it or not. And I'm doing it alone," he added to Matty.

Matty looked as though Eliot had slapped him. His eyes filled with tears.

"Fuck you, Spencer," he snarled. Then he turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

A sharp knife stabbed through Eliot's heart, not just at Matty's words, but at the sheer loathing and anguish in which they were drenched.

Eliot and Matty's relationship, delicately balanced between friendship and animosity, had never been anything but fragile. Pete, their cornerstone, had kept it from dissolving. But Pete was gone now. He was never coming back, and their relationship had been crumbling ever since. Matty had retreated, confiding in Maria, which Eliot both understood and expected. They'd hardly spoken since Eliot had returned from the warehouse, and when they did, it quickly devolved into clenched fists and hissed insults, like two tomcats meeting in an alley. Once they'd nearly come to blows; only Juan stepping between them and invoking Pete had stopped them from physically manifesting the countless insults and threats they had exchanged throughout their acquaintance.

Given all that, Eliot was simultaneously stung and relieved as Matty's venomous declaration of _"Fuck you, Spencer"_ shattered what little remained of a tenuous and tumultuous association neither had ever wanted. That was fine by Eliot. Matty had Maria, and Eliot didn't want to be around anyone anymore anyway.

But contrary to what Matty believed, Eliot's refusal to bring him along to bury Pete had absolutely nothing to do with their animosity. It wasn't that Eliot didn't want Matty to go with him — in fact, in this task, burying his best friend, he would have liked the company. It would have been nice, even comforting, to share the pain with someone who had cared about Pete as much as he did. But he'd made a promise to a dying Pete to keep Matty safe and get him to the wedding. And Maria had come to Eliot the previous day — without Matty — and had asked him to stand in for Pete as Matty's best man. She'd begged him — "Please, Eliot, do this for me. Matty doesn't have anyone now. Do it for Pete." And so he'd agreed. Even if Eliot hadn't made the promise to keep Matty safe, Pete had made it abundantly clear that the best man's job was to make sure the groom showed up to the wedding, and that was exactly what Eliot was going to do. He refused to allow anything to happen to Matty. It wouldn't have been fair to Maria, and, after everything that had happened, Pete would never have forgiven him.

Eliot turned back to Juan, whose eyes were filled with tears. Eliot knew they were for Matty. If Pete's death had any silver lining, it was that amid his loss, Matty had been unable to hide his resentment of Eliot any longer, and Juan had finally seen the pain he'd caused Matty by pushing him away after Berto's death and seeming to adopt Eliot as a replacement. Maria had said the two had become closer, even sharing scotch and cigars a few times. As much as Eliot felt that Matty's gain was his own loss, he knew that Pete would have been happy with that outcome.

"Juan, I'm leaving this afternoon, right after the funeral. This isn't a request."

Juan sighed, his face etched with a sadness Eliot had only seen when the man thought of Berto. "You have twenty-four hours. If you aren't back by the same time tomorrow, I will come find you myself. Do you understand?"

Eliot nodded. He'd make it back if it was the last thing he did. He wouldn't let anyone else risk their lives for him ever again.

When he'd arrived in Pete's hometown, he'd quickly found the local cemetery. He'd approached the little house nearby and asked about Sarah. The old couple who took care of the cemetery had been devastated to hear about Pete. They'd told him that Pete owned the plot right next to Sarah, and that everything would be taken care of, but Eliot had insisted on burying Pete himself. So they had shown him where to go and left him with a shovel.

It hadn't rained in weeks, so the ground was hard. Eliot was grateful for that. It gave him something to focus on other than the fact that Pete had already arranged everything. He'd been barely twenty-one years old. What the hell kind of person prepared for their death at twenty-one?

_"He wanted to die, Eliot. He never recovered from losing Sarah."_

Eliot forced the shovel into the ground hard, and the splintered wood of the old handle sliced into his hand. Good. If he couldn't cry for Pete, he could at least sweat and bleed for him.

He gripped the shovel harder. "I'm so sorry, Pete." With every pile of dirt he removed, another brick was added to the wall around his heart. He couldn't keep his promise to Pete. He wasn't strong enough for that.

Never again.

.

.

.

Eliot hadn't been there in eight years, but he knew exactly where to go. The little cemetery hadn't changed at all during that time.

The only thing different was the people. It was daylight, but crowds were still celebrating in the streets all over San Lorenzo. "_¡Viva Presidente Vittori!_" they yelled. Eliot was pretty sure nobody in the entire country had slept a wink the previous night. It made him smile. His team had done that, what Juan, Maria and Matty, and even Eliot had never been able to do alone.

They'd saved San Lorenzo.

The headstone was bigger than Eliot had expected, but simple. A vertical slab of concrete that sat about three feet high, it read:

_PETER RODRIGUEZ_

with his dates of birth and death below.

As he approached, Eliot's stomach fluttered. He was nervous.

He chuckled. Pete would have found that hilarious.

Kneeling on one knee at the grave, an enormous wave of grief nearly knocked him over. The familiar emptiness swelled in his chest until the ache overwhelmed him. A lump formed in his throat; his vision blurred.

"Hey, Pete," he rasped.

_"Boy-crying,"_ came Parker's voice in his head.

He smiled at that as the tears finally fell, rolling in tracks down his cheeks. He covered his face and sobbed into his hands.

No, Parker. Real crying.

The grief washed over him again and again, advancing and receding like waves on a deserted beach. He relished it, eight years of repressed sorrow, anger, anguish, and loneliness leeching from him painfully, like a long-infected wound being drained.

"Hey, Pete," he said thickly. "It's been a while."

He sat down, forcing a smile through his tears. "And man, have I got some stories to tell you."


	23. Chapter 23

_Thank you all so much for still reading! I really appreciate everyone who left a review on the last chapter_ –_ it's wonderful to know that you all responded so strongly to it. Here's something a bit lighter for you. Sorry for the delay, but the holidays kept me from posting sooner. Many thanks to Valawenel, who got me out of a rut within five minutes of chatting :) I hope to have the next chapter up soon, so hopefully you won't have to wait too long for the next one. Happy New Year, and thanks again!_

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Chapter 23

"… but it wasn't until the ferret bit the mark that Nate finally pulled the plug. Then Parker dropped down from _somewhere_ and tasered the two guards, while Hardison grabbed the ferret and I grabbed the USB stick full of evidence. I have no idea how Sophie got rid of her guy, but she met us in the lobby, Nate pulled up in Lucille, and we were halfway home before we realized we didn't even have the damned diamond!"

Pete threw his head back and laughed, throwing his whole body into it, exactly like Eliot remembered. He was sitting with his back against his own headstone — three feet tall by one foot wide — one leg outstretched, the other crooked up with his arm resting on his knee, just like whenever they'd sat in their room and drank. Eliot had never understood how someone with such a dark past could have a laugh as fun and contagious as Pete's, but as always, it brought a smile to his face.

Eliot sat cross-legged on the grass, facing Pete. He knew he was being stupid. Pete was dead. Eight years ago he'd sat helplessly as Pete bled to death in that warehouse from a wound that was meant for him. A few days later he'd defied everyone's wishes and his own better judgment and buried Pete right in this spot, next to the love of his life. Nothing was ever going to bring him back.

And yet, in this moment, Eliot didn't care. He'd been forced to leave San Lorenzo not even a week after Pete's death, leaving behind the only people who knew the horrible things he'd done and loved him anyway. To cope, he'd pushed all the memories, good and bad, as far down as they would go. He'd never properly grieved for Pete, or the life he'd had to abandon at Moreau's order. After eight years, he was finally ready to heal. It helped to think of Pete laughing and commenting on his current life, and anyway, Pete had been in his head since he'd returned to San Lorenzo. Visualizing him wasn't really that much worse, was it?

"Aw, man, El." Pete sighed the words as he chuckled one last time, before settling into a post-laugh contented silence. His neck rested against the top of his headstone, and he looked up at the sky, an enormous grin on his face. "That's some family you got there." He lifted his head and returned his gaze to Eliot. "You did it. You kept your promise."

Even as his heart leapt at seeing Pete smile again, Eliot felt a pang of guilt. "No, I didn't. Not really. I still shut them out. They just figured out a way in anyway. Because that's what they do."

Pete rolled his eyes. "You're right. Never mind. It doesn't count, you're a terrible person, you broke the promise you made to your dying friend." He rattled the sentence off as though he was reciting a rehearsed line, with almost no change in inflection. "Better?"

"Dammit, Pete, you know what I mean!" Eliot almost smiled at his own irritation — it was wonderfully familiar, and not just because he was getting annoyed with Pete like he always used to. Nowadays he used the same tone and even the same phrasing whenever he got aggravated with Hardison.

Pete actually did smile at Eliot's irritation. "Feel better? How long has it been since you've said that? Eight years? Or is it more like eight hours?" He looked at his wrist, even though he wasn't wearing, and never had worn, a watch. "When did you last talk with Hardison?" His eyes twinkled, like they always did when he teased Eliot. "Do you really think it matters whether you let them in or they conned their way in?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I still closed up." Eliot bowed his head in shame. "I didn't keep my promise."

Pete shrugged. "But you did. You could have pushed them away. You could have run away loads of times." He started to tick things off on his fingers. "After Dubenich tried to kill you all, after that first job was over, after that second job was over, between the first and second David jobs, when you guys disbanded before Boston —"

"How the hell do you know all that?"

Pete tossed him a look, and it was such a _Pete _look that it made Eliot's heart ache — his head tilted to the side, his eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly, his face was deadpan, and his eyes said, _You're kidding, right?_

"Because I'm a manifestation of your subconscious. I know everything you know, plus a bunch of stuff you haven't realized yet."

"A manifesta — Are you serious?"

"I'm dead serious." Pete suddenly burst into laughter, slapping his knee. "Literally! Ah, I crack myself up." He chuckled into a sigh again. Then his smile suddenly evaporated, and he narrowed his eyes at Eliot. "Now stop deflecting. You didn't let them in, but you didn't stop them. So you sort of kept your promise, but sort of not. It's actually even better. This way you learned your lesson in the process."

"And what lesson is that?"

Pete shrugged. "Don't ask me. It's your lesson, not mine."

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you were a manifestation of my subconscious?"

"I am. But that doesn't mean I'm going to give you all the answers. You have to work for some of it."

Eliot threw his head back and groaned in frustration. Pete merely grinned.

"You know, Rodriguez, you drive me nuts. You're just like Hardison sometimes."

"I think you mean Hardison is just like me," Pete corrected. "I came first. But I definitely see the resemblance: quick wit, biting humor, devilishly handsome looks." He winked and looked down at himself. "Thanks for not aging me, by the way. You don't look so great. Old age must suck."

"I'm not old!" Eliot growled. "But … yeah. It's been a tough eight years."

"It's probably been just as tough for Matty, but look at him. Even Sophie wants a piece of that."

Eliot grumbled, "It's the uniform."

Pete gave a head nod in acknowledgement. "True. Plus Matty always did have girls swooning all over him."

"So did I!" Eliot protested. "And I still do, by the way."

"Of course you do." Pete's grin was infuriating.

"Anyway, Matty is considerably younger than I am."

"He's not _that_ much younger than you," Pete mumbled under his breath.

A tidal wave of memories came flooding back to Eliot, as he remembered, for the first time in years, dozens of conversations that had started something like, _"Ugh, Eliot, you're so old!"_ or _"Damn, El, how old are you?"_ or _"I'm sorry, did you just say, 'Ma'am'? What are you, ninety?" _to which he had responded: _"I'm not _that _much older than you!"_

Eliot sighed and shook his head. What goes around comes around.

"Face it, El, you're getting old. Way too old for hair like that, by the way." Pete wrinkled his nose. "Seriously, why's it so long?"

"Because I like it this way." Eliot's tone was more defensive than he'd intended.

"I don't."

"Good thing it's not your hair, then. I happen to like it."

"Do you, though?" Pete looked skeptical. "It looks like it probably gets in your way all the time. Aren't you always brushing it out of your face? Or going like this?" He did an exaggerated swoop of his head, brushing back imaginary hair, like a supermodel.

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Pete gave an exaggerated wince and clutched his abdomen. "Jeez, El. I'm dead. Maybe be a little nicer?"

Eliot frowned. While the Pete in front of him was an uncannily accurate incarnation of the real one — who had always been able to find a way to joke about almost anything including, and especially, dark topics — the attempts at humor pained Eliot. As did the sight of Pete cringing in pain while holding his side. Eliot's grief was still fresh. Why was his subconscious doing this?

"Because deep down, you know I'd want you to remember the good stuff, which of course includes my cheerfully morbid sense of humor." Pete cocked an eyebrow. "And did you just call your grief 'fresh'? I've been dead for eight years, El. Pretty sure there's a statute of limitations on this stuff, and you're way past it."

Eliot had no answer for that. He just blinked. This was the most bizarre experience of his entire life.

Pete snorted. "I've been in your head since you first set foot in San Lorenzo. Did you really think this would culminate in something that _wasn't_ bizarre?"

"Longer than that," said Eliot. "The memories started with Juan's phone call. Or did you mean your creepy, disembodied voice that's been haunting me for the past week?"

Pete's face turned serious. "That wasn't me. The real me would never have said those horrible things about Juan not caring for you, or Hardison wanting a friend who won't let him drown, or Nate and Juan being disappointed in you."

Of course Eliot knew that. Those had been his own dark thoughts coming through — the guilt and resentment and jealousy and anger that had leaked through and spilled out of the box he'd tried to keep them in. But it was comforting to hear someone say it aloud — or as close to out loud as he was going to get.

"Now will you stop deflecting?" Pete asked. "I see what you're doing. You just don't want to talk about your new family and how much they're all like me."

"I'm not deflecting!" Eliot didn't need Pete's disbelieving look to know that wasn't true. "And what the hell does that even mean? You and Hardison are only alike because of how annoying you both are."

Pete pointed a mockingly stern finger at Eliot. "Hey, first of all, both Hardison and I know that you secretly like being annoyed. And second, I seem to remember you recalling a certain Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident and then reflecting on how much I was like a combination of Hardison and Parker — and how much you love all three of us." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Think about it, El. Hardison is hilarious and gets on your nerves, just like me. Parker has a quirky, almost childlike excitement about things that makes you reconsider whether you should dismiss them so quickly. Like a certain matchmaker we both know."

Pete winked, but Eliot's heart squeezed at the last phrase.

"Oh, I'm not done yet." Pete wiggled his eyebrows, which caused a painful emptiness to swell inside Eliot's chest as he started to realize just how much he missed his best friend. "There's the grifter who seems to know exactly what you're thinking, can always tell when something's wrong, and will nag you until you do something to fix it. And she actually worked _with_ me to get you to come here!"

Pete spread his arms as if this was miraculous — which Eliot supposed it was, considering Pete was in his head — before leaning back and letting out a contented sigh. "Sophie and I make a great team. I wish I could work with all of them like that."

Eliot surprised himself by pinching the bridge of his nose — something he'd used to do whenever he got frustrated with Pete. His eyes stung as he realized how often he tended to do that when dealing with Parker. He used the gesture to take a moment and regain control.

But when he finally looked up and spoke, he found that his voice was thicker than he'd expected. "You're missing someone, you know."

Pete grinned. "Not missing. Just saving the best for last."

Eliot groaned in frustration. "How in the hell are you like Nate?"

Pete gave him the same _Pete_ look he'd given earlier, and Eliot's chest ached yet again. Then, in a tone that combined Hardison's Tormented Hacker frustration, Parker's _Doesn't everyone do that?_ innocence, and his own _Come on, El, don't be an idiot! _upbeat exasperation, Pete answered Eliot's question.

"Tragic backstory."

Eliot's breath caught in his throat.

All four of them … like Pete? How was that even possible?

He shook his head. It wasn't. No, his subconscious was trying to make connections where there were none, reaching too far to force pieces into places where they didn't fit.

"Reaching?" Eliot didn't need to see Pete's eyebrows shoot up his forehead to tell he was offended. "Then how about this? Your current quest consists of you working with a small team of talented yet damaged individuals whose mission is ultimately to do good by using whatever means available within a highly corrupt system. That team is led by a somewhat idealistic man who lost his only son and fights so that others don't have to suffer like he did. These people have become your family, and the man is almost like a —"

"Don't," Eliot snapped. "It's not like that with Nate."

"If you say so." Pete shrugged and fell silent, playing with the grass above his own grave for a few moments. "But that's all a bit much to be just a coincidence. Don't you think?"

"So what are you saying, that I sought them out because they reminded me of you?"

"Nah. Nothing as _conscious _as that." Pete smirked at the emphasis. "But it would certainly explain why it was so easy for them to find a way into your heart, which you'd so carefully locked away. You could say that they …" He paused, searching for the right phrase. "Made a duplicate key."

Eliot had forgotten just how infuriating Pete's knowing smile could be. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure," said Pete. "So how do you think Matty stays so young and attractive?"

Eliot groaned. "Gee, I don't know. He's just General Perfect-In-Every-Way Ramirez."

Pete gave Eliot another one of his classic _Pete_ looks — he cocked an eyebrow, smirked, and his eyes said, _Don't try that with me, Spencer._ "Aw, come on, El. Aren't you just a little bit happy for him?" His voice rose an octave on the word _little_, and to accentuate the point, he brought his hand up to his eye and made a show of looking through the miniscule space he made between his thumb and index finger. "Matty deserves it all, after everything he's been through. And so does Maria."

His smile faded to a couple of quirks at the end of his mouth, and he swallowed. "They got the happy ending. They have a family now. We did that, didn't we?"

His gaze drifted to the grave on Eliot's right. The small, delicate headstone was inscribed, below the name, birth and death dates, with:

_Sarah ~ Beloved fiancée, daughter, friend._

_"Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, and ends with a teardrop." - St. Augustine_

Pete's eyes overflowed with love, just as they had in his last moments.

The lonely hollowness in Eliot's chest gaped painful and wide, pressing against his ribcage until he could barely breathe. He blinked back a few tears, trying to decide if he should ask the question in his head.

"Go ahead," Pete whispered. He continued to look at Sarah's headstone, eyes shining brightly.

"Are you with her?" Eliot whispered, too — the lump in his throat wouldn't allow anything more. "Are you happy?"

Pete turned to him with a sad smile and shook his head. "I can't answer the first one. Manifestation of your subconscious, remember?" He tapped his temple, as if Eliot wasn't aware of where one's subconscious resided. "And even if I did know —" His chuckle was a small one — only a single syllable. "There's probably some sort of rule about revealing too much, you know?"

Eliot tried to smirk, but the other question hung heavy in the air, dampening the mood and weighing down the corners of his mouth.

"As for the second one," Pete murmured. "I think you know the answer to that."

Eliot swallowed, but the lump didn't budge. "Were you really that unhappy? I tried so hard to —"

"And you did." Pete leaned forward and looked Eliot in the eyes. "I told you that, El, with my dying breath. I _was_ happy. You helped me." His gaze drifted to Sarah's grave again. "It just wasn't enough. She meant too much to me. A part of me died the day I lost her, and no amount of happiness could bring that back."

"You tried to kill yourself on the first anniversary." The thought had haunted Eliot for years. Why hadn't Pete told him that?

"That's what Juan said."

"I know what Juan said. I was there, I —" He sighed as Pete tapped his temple again. "You don't know."

"Because you don't know. But you could ask Juan. Or Maria." He paused. "Or Matty."

Eliot laughed bitterly. "No way. I will never talk to him about you again. He called me a coward just because —" His voice gave out as the painful memory came surging back.

_Matty's jaw dropped for a second, but then the acidic laugh returned. "You can't even hear his name, can you? After everything that happened? After everything he did for you? He —"_

_"Shut up!" Eliot snarled._

_Matty shook his head, face contorted in disgust. "Cobarde." Coward._

Matty's slur still stung.

Eliot's vision blurred, and his voice was thick. "Pete, he blames me for what happened. He thinks that I benched him because of some personal vendetta."

"That's because he has no reason to think otherwise. Not like you've talked about what happened in any sort of healthy way."

"I was a bit busy getting exiled," Eliot snapped.

Pete sighed heavily and shook his head. "You do know why you guys have never gotten along, right?"

"Because he hates me?"

"Because you're exactly the same."

Eliot gritted his teeth. "We are _not_ the same."

In spite of his anger and defensiveness, the sadness in Pete's eyes almost broke Eliot's heart. "Not anymore. Matty's who you used to be, El, before you became … you."

The revelation hit Eliot so hard he felt dizzy. His eyes widened, but Pete continued.

"Matty has everything you used to have, and could have had someday. He fights to protect his country. He fell in love with and married a girl he grew up with, and now they're raising a family. He has steady _legal_ job, a strong moral compass …" Pete's brow furrowed slightly. "And a clean conscience. He is and always has been honest. He's who you could have been, if you hadn't become Eliot Spencer, Moreau's Rottweiler, and you resent him for it. You always have, ever since you first met him."

Eliot passed a hand over his face and bowed his head. Deep down, he knew it was true. He'd always been jealous of Matty, and whenever Pete or Juan or even Maria seemed to show him favoritism, he'd reveled in it. Because that favoritism, that love they'd shown him, was the one thing he'd been able to cling to, the only evidence that, somewhere inside him, the man he could have been still existed and maybe, just maybe, might be resurrected one day.

But it hadn't been enough that they'd shown him that love. He'd seen how it had made Matty feel — as if, by giving that love to him, they were denying it to Matty. And he'd taken that as proof that the man he'd chosen to be was better than Matty, better even than the man he could have been. That maybe he'd made the right decision. He'd used Matty's pain to justify all of his life choices, and that had allowed him to feel a little less like a monster.

He'd relished Matty's pain. He'd _enjoyed_ it. And even after eight years, there had been moments over the past week when he'd felt the same way.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He buried his face in his hands. All the issues and resentments between him and Matty — they were all his fault.

"Uh-uh, don't go doing that." Pete's voice brought Eliot back to the present. "I know you love a good self-pity party, but you can't take all the guilt for yourself. There's plenty to go around. Matty's been jealous of you for just as long, wishing that people would fawn over him as much as they do over you, imagining how nice it would be to live a life like yours."

Eliot's head snapped up so quickly he felt his neck crack. "Bullshit. That's you — or me, or whoever — imagining things. There's no way in hell Matty thinks that my life is better."

Pete shrugged. "Maria told you a few days ago that there are times when she wishes she could just leave it all behind. Why do you think Matty's any different? Think about it from his perspective. You swoop in, make friends, play the hero, and leave. You don't have to clean up your messes — that's his job — and you have nothing tying you down. You're carefree — plenty of money, you choose your own jobs, and when things get tough, you can run away."

"I don't run," Eliot growled. "And carefree? Do you have any idea how many countries have a price on my head? I'd give anything to have what Matty has."

"Whoa, cool it." Pete threw up his hands in surrender. "I'm just the messenger. You and Matty, like Nate and Moreau, are two sides of the same coin — similar paths, different choices. And the grass is always greener on the other side."

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "On the other side of the coin?"

"Hey, it's not a perfect metaphor."

"It's not _a_ metaphor at all. It's two. And you mixed them."

"But the point is valid!"

Eliot's guilt and anger diminished a bit at the familiar banter and Pete's sudden defensiveness, and he almost smiled.

"Whatever." Pete rolled his eyes. "You're just deflecting because you know I'm right. You and Matty need to have a serious talk."

Right. That would happen just as soon as hell froze over.

"I'm done talking about Matty," said Eliot. "Can we move on?"

"Sure. Want to talk about the team again?" Pete smirked at Eliot's renewed irritation. "Because it really all boils down to the same subject — you running away from the people who care about you."

Eliot clenched his fists, and he spoke through gritted his teeth. "I am _not _running. I have to leave. They deserve better."

Pete laughed, but it was a bitter and mirthless one, and so unlike the laugh that Eliot fondly remembered it sent a chill down his spine. "Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that. But it's just like the last time. You're running because caring is too hard."

Eliot's voice caught in his throat. "I didn't run last time. I _had_ to leave, because Moreau —"

"Yes, yes. Moreau threatened you, you had to leave to protect them all, blah blah." Pete opened and closed his hand several times, as if it were a mouth. "It's just us, El. You and me. So let's be honest — what would you have done if Moreau hadn't made his threat? Would you have stayed?"

The question hit Eliot like a baseball bat to the solar plexus. He felt as if someone had sucked all the oxygen from his lungs. It took him a moment to start breathing again, and when he did, it was ragged and uneven. "Of course. I wanted to stay to —"

"Don't lie." Pete's words were clipped, his jaw tight. He was angry now. "You're sitting here, at my _grave_, and you're lying to my face. Even worse, you're lying to yourself. What would you have done after the wedding, Eliot? Matty and Maria went off to Paris on their honeymoon. When they got back, what would you have done? Would you have gone on fighting the good fight alongside Juan and goody-two-shoes Matty, who'd just gotten his happy ending and hated your fucking guts? Would you have worked with them to take down Moreau and Chapman, to avenge my death? Or would you have retreated from everyone, gotten stuck in your own head, spiraled downward in your guilt, and run away because it was just too damned much for you to handle?"

Eliot winced as Pete talked, every word hitting him like a fresh slap to the face. His cheeks burned, his throat stung, his vision blurred as new tears formed and threatened to fall.

"Exactly." The iciness of Pete's voice sent shivers down Eliot's spine, even though the morning was hot and humid. A chill settled deep in his bones. "And you're doing the same thing now. You're so damned scared that these people might actually care about you, the _real_ you, and you can't have that, can you?"

"No." Eliot's voice was as rough as sandpaper, but just as strong. "If they knew the real me, they wouldn't ever really care."

"Bullshit," Pete spat. "In your hotel room the other day, Parker thought for a moment that you'd killed Maria's brother, that _that_ was the worst thing you'd ever done. But what did she do? She hugged you and apologized for asking you about it. Hardison told you flat-out exactly what you used to do for Moreau. 'You used to torture and kill people for money. Am I close?' Then he said he didn't give a damn what you used to do, because you're not that man anymore. You told Sophie you _are_ still that man, and she told you she knew that, but begged you not to leave anyway."

Eliot's heart pounded so hard he thought it might explode from his chest. It didn't matter what they thought. "They don't understand. They weren't in the warehouse. They didn't see. Nate —"

"Yes. Nate." Pete's voice was cold and merciless. "He knows what you did. But you started to run from him first. He's tried to talk to you, but you're too much of a coward to even look him in the eyes."

_Coward._ Pete flung the word like one of his knives, and it hit its target. Eliot cried out in pain as it slashed through his heart.

"I can't. They wouldn't understand." They'd just look at him in horror, finally realizing the monster that he was, and they'd turn around and never look back.

He wouldn't be able to bear the disappointment and disgust on their faces. He could hardly stand to see it on his own every time he looked in the mirror.

"El." Pete's voice was kind again, as soft and gentle as a warm breeze. "You haven't given them the chance."

Eliot pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them tight, not daring to meet Pete's gaze. "But what if they don't —"

"But what if they do?" Pete whispered. "El, look at me."

Eliot looked up, and Pete was kneeling right in front of him. He grabbed Eliot by the arms, just like Juan always did.

"Remember that lesson from before? The one I said I wouldn't tell you because you had to figure it out yourself? Well here it is. You didn't let them in on purpose, they conned their way in. You think that means you didn't keep your promise, but I don't. I think you _did_ keep your promise. Sure, you might have tried to keep them out, but you weren't trying that hard. You let them con you because you wanted to be conned. And in the process, you learned that you can't control who loves you. You don't pick your family. You didn't choose them. But you'd give your life for them — and when was the last time you cared enough about someone to do that?" Pete inclined his head forward, until his forehead was almost touching Eliot's. "And you know what? They'd do the same for you in a heartbeat. When was the last time you allowed someone to love you enough to do that?"

Eliot let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a sob. "I can't, Pete. I'm not strong enough."

"And there it is," Pete said. "You're running. Again."

He was. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it was to protect them, because they deserved better, because he was still _that man_ … he was lying. He was simply running away, like a scared little boy, because he was afraid of getting hurt again. He was afraid to allow them to care enough that they'd risk their lives, because he couldn't stand to lose someone else he loved.

He was a coward.

"That's an awfully strong word," Pete said, almost nonchalantly, as he let go of Eliot's arms and settled back into his previous position against his own headstone.

The sudden change in tone jarred Eliot from his thoughts. "That was your word." He stared at Pete, dumbstruck. "You just said, 'You're too much of a coward to look Nate in the eyes.' Like, thirty seconds ago."

Pete waved a hand dismissively. "I didn't say that, you did. Your own dark thoughts came through pretty strong there."

"But you're me. In my mind."

"Yeah, and?" Pete shrugged and stared blankly.

"And you also just told me the lesson that you said you wouldn't tell me because I had to figure it out myself."

Pete's eyes twinkled mischievously. "No, I didn't. That was you figuring it out. Through me, as a —"

"Manifestation of my subconscious. Right." Eliot rubbed his face and slapped his cheeks a few times. This was too much. The emotional whiplash of the past week was fraying his sanity. He was losing it.

"Nah." Pete grinned. "You're finding it. You're just doing it in a roundabout way."

"I said to myself," Eliot mumbled. This was definitely the strangest experience of his life.

But as he sat watching Pete, allowing his heartbeat and breathing to return to normal, his chest swelled again with the familiar ache.

"I miss you, Pete." His voice was suddenly thick and heavy, full of all the emotions that had been bouncing around inside his brain — or chest, or subconscious, or wherever — since he'd returned to San Lorenzo. No — since he'd left San Lorenzo, grief-stricken and alone, eight years ago.

Pete's eyes filled with tears, and his smile faltered a little. "I know. And I know I shouldn't be, but I'm glad. It means I meant something to you. I was important. I —" His voice cracked, and he continued more softly. "I mattered."

Eliot's felt as if someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart. "Of course you mattered, Pete. I just wish that I —"

"No, El. None of that." Pete's smile was back, brighter than ever. "What's done is done. No more regrets. It's time to move on. Statute of limitations and all that."

"I don't want to move on. I don't want to forget about you."

"Who said anything about forgetting?" Pete's voice was gentle. "Moving on is not forgetting, El. Moving on is the difference between Maggie and Nate. Don't you see how much happier she is? I can guarantee you she hasn't forgotten her son. Moving on is the difference between how the Floreses talk about Berto or me, and how you talk about me. Moving on is the difference between a dull ache and a sharp, debilitating pain. Between focusing on the good memories and only remembering the bad." His gaze drifted once again to Sarah's grave, and his voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Trust me, El. Moving on is a choice between continuing to live for the person you lost and allowing the grief to slowly eat away at you until there's nothing left." When he finally looked up at Eliot, tears streaked his cheeks, and his lower lip was trembling. "I don't want that for you. Not because of me."

Pete brought a hand to his face to wipe away the tears, and Eliot did the same. He was only mildly surprised to find his own cheeks wet, too.

A manifestation of his subconscious.

He sniffed and wiped his face roughly. "I'll try, Pete. For you. But it's going to take time."

Pete gave a small smirk. "I never said it would be easy. But I want you to remember _me_, not the fact that I died. I want you to remember all the good stuff — matchmaking, and cooking Sarah's spaghetti, and drinking peppermint tea together after nightmares. Focus on how much I annoyed the shit out of you and the fact that I was your much-needed plucky comic relief." He smiled then, a large and genuine grin that lifted Eliot's heart. "Think about me when Hardison makes a stupid joke, or Parker gets excited about something trivial, or Sophie nags you until you spill your guts about something." His brow furrowed a little, and his smile faded. "Think about me when Nate drinks, or acts like an asshole, or does something reckless. Because you get it. And maybe you can help. He's coming up on his statute of limitations, too."

Pete stopped speaking, but continued to look at Eliot while he let his words sink in. Eliot had never thought about it that way — that maybe he could help them all in ways other than keeping them safe.

"You think you haven't already?" Pete responded to Eliot's unspoken thoughts. "Parker called you a big brother and talked to you about her _feelings_ — Parker. Hardison's never had a best friend before, and certainly not one who can tolerate, and even on occasion encourage, his geekiness. Sophie called you one of her dearest friends and begged you not to leave. And Nate … you and Sophie are the only ones who can keep him in line. They all need you, El. Almost as much as you need them. And pretty soon you're going to have to make a decision — are you going to run? Or are you going to stay?"

Eliot sighed. It wasn't that he didn't _want _to stay … he just wasn't sure that was the best thing for everyone. "It's not that simple, Pete. I still need to think about it."

"Well, I think it is that simple, but you're right. You don't need to decide now. Think about it for a while longer." Pete sat quietly, looking around the cemetery, playing with the grass above his grave, for exactly nine seconds. Then he said, "So what's it going to be?"

"Dammit, Pete!"

Pete grinned, and Eliot found himself smiling, too. He couldn't help it.

"Okay, fine," Pete chuckled in surrender. "Just keep in mind that the clock is ticking. They're leaving today."

Eliot knew that. The previous night Hardison had purchased airline tickets for all of them, each for a different flight out of the country to a different destination. They'd agreed to split up and lie low for two weeks until the excitement of the election and Moreau's arrest blew over. But after his talk with Moreau, Eliot had decided that he would stay in San Lorenzo for the next two weeks. He'd finally returned after eight years, and he felt like he owed it to Juan, Maria, and even Matty to stay and spend some time with them. He had a lot of catching up to do.

He didn't know when he'd see the team again, so if he was going to leave for good, now would be the time to tell them. But he wasn't quite ready for that decision yet.

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." Pete's smile was understanding, not teasing or mocking. Just a little bit more time. "So tell me: did you ever go back and get that diamond? And what the hell did you do with the ferret?"


	24. Chapter 24

_Here's another long one, but something tells me you guys won't mind. Who knew emotional climaxes took so many words? :) Thank you, as always, for still reading and reviewing. I love you all so much!_

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Chapter 24

"So how long are you going to stay in San Lorenzo?" Pete asked.

Eliot shrugged. "The team agreed to split up for two weeks, so at least that long. Maybe longer."

He wasn't sure how long he'd been talking to Pete. At least several hours. He'd arrived around dawn, having left the capital right after his conversation with Moreau and driven the two and a half hours to the little cemetery in Pete's home town. Now the sun was high in the sky. But the longer he sat there, the more relaxed he felt. The tension leeched from his body, as though a long-infected wound was being drained, and he wanted nothing more than to stay there, conversing with his friend, until he was fully healed.

But something — a persistent _tap tap tap _at the window, refusing to let him relax or focus on anything else — nagged at the back of his mind. Just when he thought he was finished, that all the broken parts of him were finally mended, there it was, quiet and relentless, reminding him that there was something else that wasn't quite right, something that couldn't be mended by time alone at a grave.

"There is," Pete said. "You can't stay here forever."

And sometimes it wasn't a quiet tap at all, but an explicit and annoying interruption in his pleasant conversation with his dead best friend.

Eliot heaved a sigh. "I know. I need to decide whether to stay with the team."

"Well, that too."

"What?" Eliot shook his head in disbelief. "How many other things are there?"

Pete's eyes narrowed. "Don't take that tone with me. You're the one with all the issues." His eyes lit up. "So do you think you'll be around when the twins are born? Maria's about ready to pop, isn't she? Ooh, what do you think they'll name them?"

Eliot smirked. Oh yeah, his subconscious was definitely avoiding something. As annoying as his own internal thoughts could be, he knew deflecting when he saw it.

"Don't be so smug," said Pete. "This is you, not me. So, even if you aren't here to see the babies, you're at least going to meet little Berto, right?"

"I don't know." Eliot shrugged. "Probably."

Knowing Maria, she'd insist on it. She'd even said as much earlier in the week. But if Eliot was honest with himself, he had to admit he was dreading the moment. The kid was three. Eliot could handle — and sometimes even enjoyed — older kids, once they were in school and could talk like adults. But very young children always reminded him of —

"Shh! Someone's coming!"

Eliot blinked, and Pete was on his feet, a knife in each hand. It took a moment for Eliot to realize that he, too, had jumped up and assumed a defensive stance.

The tranquil atmosphere evaporated as Eliot tensed, listening, still facing Pete's headstone. It stood alone, silent and undisturbed, next to Sarah's. The only evidence of anyone's presence was the slightly smashed patch of grass where Eliot had been sitting.

In the trees behind him, he heard footsteps approaching.

Very distinctive footsteps.

He smiled, and without turning around, said, "Don't you have a country to run?"

A quiet chuckle sounded a few feet behind him. "Let me guess: very distinctive breathing?"

"Footsteps."

Eliot smirked as Juan Flores came to stand at his left side.

"Ah, yes, of course. How could I have missed that?" Juan's tone was playful. "And no. I'm just an adviser. I'm more than happy to leave the country-running to those with more energy than me."

At that, Eliot turned to really look at Juan. He was dressed in the remains of a business suit —tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a jacket draped over his forearm and his hands in his pockets. Although Eliot knew Juan had left the previous night's celebration later than he had, the man looked well-rested. It was only after a careful study of his face that Eliot could see scratches and a faded bruise that he'd somehow failed to see the day before.

Eliot's his fists clenched automatically, and a burning rage started to boil up inside him. "They hurt you."

Juan actually laughed out loud, which served to quench Eliot's rage like a bucket of ice water. "Why do you sound so surprised? I was arrested by Moreau's thugs and thrown in the Tombs. Of course they hurt me. But it was nothing I couldn't handle, or indeed haven't handled before." Juan shook his head and chuckled. "I've never understood how you young ones can address me as General, and yet seem to think that I am some sort of child in need of your protection. I can assure you it isn't an honorary title — I could never have risen to that rank without taking my fair share of beatings. I fought in the war for independence, for God's sake. This wasn't, as you Americans say, my first rodeo."

He winked, and Eliot barely suppressed an eye-roll.

"Eliot, it wasn't the first time I've been arrested, and it certainly wasn't the first time I've been held in the Tombs." A sly smirk spread across his face. "In fact, this trip was a day at the spa compared to the last one. Though Ribera's men are not gentlemen by any means, they treated me a damn sight better than Anita's brother did."

Eliot's jaw dropped. "Anita's brother? Your _brother-in-law_ arrested you during the revolution?"

Juan's eyes twinkled. "Technically he wasn't my brother-in-law at the time."

"But he held you in the Tombs? What did he —?"

Juan held up his hand. "That's a story for some other time, Eliot. That's not why I'm here."

Eliot frowned. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive from the capital. "Why _are_ you here? Did you come by yourself?"

"To answer your questions in reverse order: yes, and because people have been asking me about you."

Eliot gave an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why?" He was pretty sure he knew who. "Can't she just leave me alone?"

Juan chuckled. He was in an awfully good mood. Eliot supposed getting out of prison and saving the country would do that.

"If by 'she' you mean Maria …" Juan sighed good-naturedly and shook his head. "Let me tell you about my morning. I spent an hour in a meeting with Michael and his cabinet, during which I received dozens of significant looks and finally a text from my daughter asking if I'd heard from you. Judging from the look Matty gave his own phone and then shot across the table at her, I imagine he received something similar. You'd think the newly appointed Minister of the Interior would pay more attention in meetings."

At his last sentence, Juan was unable to hide a proud smile.

"When we were finished, she cornered me in the hallway and repeated her question, even though I'd already answered her text that no, I hadn't heard from you. She left to spend the remainder of the day at home, since she'd promised Matty, Ana and I that she would get some rest after yesterday, but she was clearly worried. Michael and I had another set of meetings, during which I received two calls — which I ignored — before we were finally interrupted by Matty. I thought that maybe she had gone into labor, but no, he begged me to please find you, because Maria wouldn't stop calling him and he couldn't keep stepping out of meetings to speak with her."

"Oh, please," Eliot muttered. "Everyone knows she's due any minute."

"Yes, but it's his first day as general, and he wants to —"

"Make a good first impression, yeah." Eliot rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help a small smile. He still had a hard time believing that Matty was actually a general now. The look on Juan's face told Eliot that he felt the same way.

"So I stepped out to try and call you when I received a call from Hardison. He told me that he hadn't seen or heard from you since last night, and that he tried tracking your phone, but you must have turned it off. He went on for a while about some technical things I didn't understand, but ended with asking if I'd heard from you. I told him I'd try to find you, and as I turned around to walk down the hall, I nearly ran into Parker. Even now I have no idea where she came from or how she was able to sneak up on me."

Eliot chuckled. "She's a thief. That's kind of her thing."

"Yes, well, she seemed particularly concerned that you weren't in your room. I asked her how she knew that, but she just stared at me blankly before talking about some sort of locks in the hotel and why they weren't very secure." Juan shook his head in disbelief. "It took a minute or so of that for me to finally understand that she'd somehow broken into your room. She said it looked like you hadn't even slept there, and she got very upset and said something about how you promised you'd say goodbye first."

The bottom of Eliot's stomach dropped out. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, but he honestly didn't think anyone would notice he was missing. He hadn't meant to worry anyone, and he certainly didn't want Parker thinking he'd left for good without telling them. He'd promised her — and himself — that he'd never do that again.

His thoughts must have shown on his face because Juan added, "I assured her that you were fine, but then Maria called and when I looked around she was gone. Maria told me you had mentioned coming here, so I decided I'd better find you, if for no other reason than to assure myself you were all right. And here I am."

"I'm sorry they kept bothering you." Their insistence surprised Eliot. As far as they knew, he'd only been gone a few hours. And if Maria knew he was here, why was she so worried? Unless … unless they'd all thought he'd left without saying goodbye, just like Parker had. He felt a slight pang of guilt. Maybe he should have sent a text or left a note.

But there were some people missing from Juan's story.

"Did you hear from Sophie or Nate?" It wasn't that Eliot needed or even wanted to hear that they were concerned about him. It was the fact that Sophie, at least, hadn't contacted Juan when everyone else had — she was the person he'd been referring to when he'd asked, _Can't she just leave me alone?_ Of everyone, except for Maria, she was the one he expected to be worried or nagging. So why wasn't she? Had something happened to her?

Juan seemed to understand Eliot's worry. "I wondered about that, too, but I imagine Sophie is exhausted after getting assassinated yesterday." The corners of his lips quirked upward. "And as for Nate, if I'd had as much to drink last night as he did, I probably wouldn't get out of bed until tomorrow."

That didn't calm Eliot's nerves. Maybe he should go back to check on them.

"I'm sure they're fine," said Juan, as if he could read Eliot's thoughts. For a moment Eliot thought that perhaps he, too, was a manifestation of his subconscious.

"I'm here to see you, Eliot. How are you doing?"

Juan's gaze drifted to Pete's grave, and Eliot followed it.

"I'm not sure how long you've been here," Juan continued when Eliot didn't respond. "But it took me a few hours to get here, and that was after everyone came to me concerned that they couldn't find you. Do you know what time it is?"

Eliot looked up at the sky and was surprised to find that the sun was almost directly overhead. He'd been here much longer than he'd thought.

"Noon."

"Eleven. But nice try."

Eliot shrugged off the error. "You guys don't observe Daylight Savings Time."

"And you haven't answered my question, Commander. How are you doing?"

Juan's eyes were piercing, and Eliot avoided them by returning his own to Pete's grave.

"All right, I guess. The headstone's bigger than I expected. It wasn't here last time."

"You chose a nice spot."

"I didn't choose it. He did." Eliot frowned. "He owned it. The plot next to hers. He planned for this." His vision blurred as he looked at the grave, undisturbed by any sign of the Pete he'd been conversing with. "You were right, when we talked after — when you told me —" He cleared his throat. "He wanted to die."

Juan was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke his voice was soft. "I think that by the time it happened, he didn't want it so much as he was … ready for it."

A memory forced its way to the front of Eliot's mind before he could stop it.

_Pete blinked slowly a few times, tears streaming down his cheeks. His lip trembled, and when he finally met Eliot's gaze, Eliot saw one emotion above all others — fear._

_"God, why now?" Pete sobbed. "Why not right after Sarah? … Or before I met you? Or before matchmaking? Or after —" His voice cracked. "After the wedding? Why now? I don't want to go now."_

Eliot barely choked back a sob. "He wasn't ready. He was scared."

Juan placed a hand on Eliot's arm. "Of course he was scared, Eliot. Death is unknown, and the unknown is the most frightening thing imaginable. But that doesn't mean he wasn't ready. It doesn't mean that he didn't welcome it."

_"S'okay … s'better … want this …"_

"Eliot." Juan squeezed Eliot's arm and brought him back to the present. "I honestly believe that he's happier now."

More memories thrust themselves forward, flashes that went by almost faster than Eliot could identify them.

_"S'okay … s'better …"_

_He saw a spark, something he'd never seen in Pete's eyes before — complete and utter love. Pete's lips formed a small smile. For the first time since Eliot had met him, he looked truly, genuinely happy._

_Eliot used his shirt sleeve and tenderly wiped Pete's face clean of the blood, tears, and grime. When he was finished, he was struck again by how peaceful Pete looked. No, more than that — at peace. Finally._

Eliot looked at the headstone, where his mind's Pete, the manifestation of his subconscious, had sat not ten minutes ago. There was no sign of him now. But Eliot had asked him the question.

_"I think you know the answer to that,"_ Mind Pete had responded.

"Yeah," Eliot whispered. "He is happy."

Eliot let the tears stream all the way down his cheeks before finally wiping them away.

"I also believe," Juan said, leaning closer to Eliot and speaking almost conspiratorially, "that he wouldn't want you to spend all your time here upset." He gave Eliot's arm a little squeeze. "He'd want you to laugh."

Eliot smiled at that, and nodded with a sniff.

"He loved making you laugh, Eliot. It made him happy. _You _made him happy. Don't ever forget that."

Images of Pete lying bleeding on the warehouse floor, choking out his last words, clouded Eliot's vision. But instead of pushing them down, he let them play out as he remembered them.

_"Nice shot, Rodriguez," Eliot croaked._

_Pete smirked. "I was … aiming for his n-neck. Oops." He attempted a chuckle which quickly morphed into a cough. "After all that p-practice … killed by irony. Call this one the F-fatal Sh-sh-shooting Incident." Pete smiled weakly. "S'joke, El. Laugh."_

_"It's not very funny," Eliot rasped._

_"Wow." Pete somehow managed to sound annoyed. "T-tough room. Gimme a break. M'dyin' here."_

Eliot actually chuckled, and a few more tears fell. "You're a laugh riot, Rodriguez."

He was grateful that Juan said nothing, just kept a hand on his arm, letting him have these few moments with Pete.

_"You saved me … made me happy. … Thank you."_

"Actually —" The word came out as a guttural rasp, and Eliot cleared his throat. "There was something I wanted to ask you about."

Juan raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

Eliot nodded. He'd made a mental note to ask Juan, since he knew that Mind Pete, as his subconscious, wouldn't know the answer. "I've been thinking a lot about what happened that day, and I remembered something Pete said to me while he was —" He forced the words out. "While he was dying."

Juan said nothing, merely listened. Eliot had missed that. He could be comforting just by being there, without a word.

Eliot took a deep breath and continued. "He said that after Sarah died, he was angry and full of hate, but you told him that I didn't have anyone, so he made friends."

He couldn't believe he hadn't put the pieces together before, but he'd been so numb afterward, and in the years since he hadn't allowed himself to think about Pete's last words. But now it all seemed so obvious. "He'd never told me that before, and I'd forgotten it until just now, but it sounds an awful lot like what you told me about Pete. That he didn't have anyone, and he could really use a friend."

Juan's face was stoic, but his eyes twinkled. "I seem to recall saying something like that. What's your point?"

"My point is: Pete and I weren't the only ones playing matchmakers back then, were we?"

For the first time in years, the word _matchmakers _made Eliot smile.

Juan's attempt at an innocent look only served to widen that smile. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Commander." He returned his gaze to Pete's grave. "But for what it's worth, I think you were both better off for it."

Eliot followed Juan's gaze with his smile. "Me too."

His voice was steady.

"So how are you feeling?"

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "I thought I already answered that question."

"That was specifically about Pete. This is more of a general question."

Eliot snorted. "No pun intended."

Juan rewarded the joke with a smile. "Well done. Pete would be proud. But I'm actually looking for an answer."

Eliot tensed slightly. He didn't like where this was going. "I'm fine."

Juan's brow furrowed, and Eliot could have kicked himself. As nearly everyone had told him over the course of the week, there was no bigger telegraph for the fact that he wasn't fine than him saying that he was.

"I mean, I'm tired, obviously," he corrected hastily. "But as a whole, I'm doing okay."

"Trouble sleeping?"

Eliot tensed a notch more. "You know me. I only sleep ninety minutes a day." He forced a smirk, but the look on Juan's face said he wasn't buying it.

"Hmm, yes. And I'm sure the stress of the last week hasn't helped."

"Exactly." It was with an effort that Eliot was able to unclench his jaw.

"I only ask because we didn't get a chance to speak after we worked together to fake Sophie's death." Juan turned his piercing gaze on Eliot, who suddenly found himself unable to meet it. "I was concerned, but with Moreau's arrest and the inauguration and the celebration after, I was unable to find and speak with you alone."

Eliot turned away from Juan, back toward Pete's grave, and said, in a voice much less steady than he would have preferred, "You were busy. I understand. It was just — just — I was tired. That's all." Before Juan could say anything else, he added, with a much too obviously forced chuckle, "You were a bit preoccupied, making toasts and talking with the new cabinet. The people love you. You should be president, not Vittori. He's a damned empty suit."

"I think you'll find that Michael is much more capable than any of us realized. He'll do a fine job. And I'll let you in on a little secret." Juan smiled and leaned toward Eliot, who instinctively backed away. "I never wanted to be president. I was only running out of a sense of duty because someone needed to oust Ribera. I am not a politician, no matter what everyone seems to think. I am a military man, and a retired one at that. Like I said, I'm more than happy to let those with more energy take the lead. But the President has asked me to serve as Minister of State, and I will do so with honor, for San Lorenzo and its people. Now, Commander," he added, a slight edge in his voice. "Why don't you stop trying to divert my attention and answer my question?"

"I told you I'm fine," Eliot snapped.

"We both know that's not true." Juan's tone was surprisingly soft again.

"Just leave me alone."

"Talk to me, Eliot." Juan reached for his arm, but Eliot flinched away. "Please. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong." Eliot's whole body was shaking now, and he felt an incredibly powerful urge to run away.

"Eliot." Juan's sigh was heavy with sadness. "I know what happened."

Eliot's breath caught in his throat. "Wh — what do you — I don't know what you're talking about."

"In the warehouse last week. In D.C. Nate told me last night."

Eliot's heart pounded, and the heat and humidity suddenly felt oppressive.

"That son of a bitch had no right," he snarled. "He said he wouldn't —"

"He's worried about you, and he told me because he thought I could help you."

"I don't need any help!" Eliot started to walk away.

His arm jerked back as though caught in a steel vise. Juan spun him around and grabbed his other arm, holding on to him like he always did. Eliot struggled, but the older man was unbelievably strong.

"Look at me, Eliot."

"No." Eliot shook his head and closed his eyes, like a child refusing his medicine. He couldn't look at Juan. He couldn't bear to see the disappointment and disgust in those eyes. Juan Flores hated the Rottweiler.

He remembered the first time he'd met Juan, that night he'd been sent to kill him.

_"Turn around and get on your knees!"_

_"How many of my men are dead?" Flores asked._

_"None," Eliot responded, too surprised to tell anything but the truth._

_"Don't lie to me. The Rottweiler is bloodthirsty and vicious, and when the master tells him to kill, he unleashes his fury on anyone who gets in his way. So how many did you kill?"_

"Eliot." Juan's quiet, firm voice brought Eliot back to the present.

"No." Eliot stared at his feet. He wouldn't, he _couldn't_, look Juan in the eyes.

"Eliot." Juan, still holding one of Eliot's arms in his iron grip, released the other and grabbed Eliot's chin, raising it until Eliot was forced to look at him.

What Eliot saw in Juan's face took his breath away. There was no disappointment, no disgust. No anger or betrayal or fear.

Only two things: sadness and understanding.

Juan's eyes were filled with tears, and he held Eliot by arms, just like he always had. "It's okay, Eliot."

"No, it's not." Eliot's voice sounded strange to him. Small and high-pitched, like a child's. "It's not okay. I — I — I —"

"I know, but it's all right, Eliot." In spite of his tears, Juan's voice was firm. "It's okay."

Juan released his grip, and Eliot collapsed into his arms, which enveloped him like a warm, welcoming blanket. With one arm wrapped around his back, the other around his shoulders, and a hand cradling his head, Eliot sobbed into the shoulder of the only man who had looked into the eyes of the Rottweiler a decade ago and seen the potential for good; the only man who knew the worst about him, yet had only ever seen the best.

The dam had finally broken. For the first time, he cried tears — real tears — for all of them. He saw their empty, lifeless eyes; heard their screams of pain and pleas for mercy; felt their limp forms in his heartless grip; smelled their fear with the well-honed nose of a Rottweiler; tasted the bitter regret of their final words. He remembered their names and faces, and he grieved for every last one of them.

And for the first time in his life, he cried for himself. With the breaking of the dam burst forth rage and resentment, loneliness and self-loathing, the immense, soul-sucking guilt and the heart-wrenching, ceaseless anguish. He finally allowed himself to grieve for the man he could have been, and for the man he'd become and the life he'd started to build before Damien Moreau had whisked back into his world and ripped it away. He wept in the arms of the closest person he'd had to a father since he'd left his real one, angry and disappointed, too many years ago to ever make amends. Begging for a pardon he had no hope of receiving, he confessed his sins to the infinitely patient, always understanding, forever compassionate man who had never treated him as anything less than the son he'd lost.

He bared his soul to Juan Flores.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed, over and over, because he would never be able to say it enough.

Juan's slightly accented English was barely a whisper, tender and soft. "It's okay. It's going to be all right. _No llores, mijo._"

_Don't cry, my son._

At those words he'd yearned for during eight long years of exile, and had resigned himself to never hearing again, Eliot whimpered like small child and fully surrendered himself to Juan's comforting and loving embrace. Juan rocked him like an infant, murmuring the phrase again and again, tightening his hold with every repetition.

"_No llores, mijo._ It's going to be all right."

And somehow, in those arms, with those words, from that voice, Eliot started to believe it could be.

.

.

.

He sobbed until he couldn't breathe, until his strength was gone and his tears were dry, until all that was left was anger and loathing, but Juan didn't let go until he pulled away — and even then he only allowed Eliot as far away as his arms could reach, still clutching him tightly in that hold that would always be his.

Eliot's breaths came in spasms of his abdomen, and he had to focus to bring them back into a steady rhythm.

And still Juan didn't let go.

When Eliot had finally regained control of himself, he met Juan's gaze again.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Juan breathed.

"Because I —" Eliot sucked in a breath that sounded like a sob, and his abdomen started to spasm again. "Because I — didn't want to — disap — point you."

The pain in Juan's eyes was too much for Eliot to bear, and he dropped his gaze as his vision blurred. "I'm sorry," he rasped.

"No, no." Juan cupped Eliot's face in his hands, his thumb could stroking Eliot's cheek. "Oh, _mijo_, I can never be disappointed in you."

There it was again. _Mijo. My son._ Eliot's heart leapt at the words, even as his stomach sank.

"But I —" Another spasm. "I started again, after you helped me stop. The Rottweiler —"

Juan's jaw tightened and his eyes darkened. "No, Eliot," he said firmly. His tone was almost scolding. "This is not the same as that."

"Yes, it is. Fourteen of them, in cold blood —"

"No." Juan shook Eliot's face, jerking him right out of a sob. "No, Eliot. Listen to me. You did not kill those men in cold blood. You were defending yourself, and you were protecting your team. You weren't killing innocents, you were fighting a war. If you hadn't done what you did, you would be dead, and Nate, and your team. Moreau would have come back here, Ribera would have won the election, and he may very well have killed me and my family when it was over. You saved us all. You have to understand that."

"But the Rottweiler —"

"Stop that." Juan shook him again. "You are Eliot Spencer. You are a good man. The things you did in the past are in the past. You are not that man anymore."

"But I am," Eliot whispered. Why couldn't Juan see that? "I felt him. He came out from where he was buried and he killed fourteen men and he _enjoyed _it. I felt it, the rush —"

Juan's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, Eliot —" His voice broke and he brought a shaking hand to his face.

Eliot's heart shattered.

Disappointment. He always disappointed eventually.

He tried to keep the sob in, but his spasming abdomen betrayed him.

After what seemed like an eternity, during which Eliot tried to imagine how he could continue, what he could do, condemned to a life in which even Juan Flores rejected him, Juan finally met his gaze, and all Eliot could see was an immense sadness, followed by an urgent understanding.

Juan took Eliot's face in his hands and forced him to look into his eyes, which brimmed with unshed tears. "No, _mijo_, it wasn't a rush that you felt. That was the adrenaline. You didn't enjoy it. You were — your body was in fight-or-flight mode. You were fighting, and your body responded. That is not the same as how it used to feel."

_Mijo_ again. Juan didn't hate him.

But he was wrong.

"How do you know it was adrenaline?" Eliot snapped. He tried to shrug off Juan's hold, but the old man's grip was unbreakable. "You don't know what it felt like."

"No, I don't." Juan seemed to grasp his face even more tightly. "But I have fought wars. I have ordered men to fight, to kill, and I have killed men. What you are describing is no different from what I've felt, or any soldier feels. What you are describing has nothing to do with the Rottweiler."

Eliot started to shake his head, slowly at first, then more and more vigorously. "No. No." He remembered what it had felt like back then, he knew that it was the same —

"What are you feeling right now?" Juan asked.

Eliot blinked, freezing mid-headshake. The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"What are you feeling? What emotions?"

"I —" Eliot didn't know how to answer. He couldn't even begin to describe his current emotional state.

"Guilt?" Juan prompted.

"Yes," Eliot breathed.

"Remorse? Sadness? Self-loathing? Anger?"

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. All of that and more.

"Now tell me, does that sound like how the Rottweiler would feel after a kill?"

Eliot's eyes snapped open. His abdomen spasmed again, not as a sob but a gasp — of surprise.

He shook his head slowly, in disbelief. "No."

"No," Juan repeated. He rubbed Eliot's cheek again with his thumb. "You fought a battle against Moreau. You haven't been a true soldier in years, and you've forgotten what it's like. What you're feeling right now is normal. It's how you should be feeling."

"But I have. Been a soldier."

Juan frowned. "After you left?"

"Yes." He'd needed to do something after being exiled from San Lorenzo. Before he'd discovered that people would pay a lot of money to have items retrieved, he'd taken the only job he knew how to do — paid mercenary. "In Myanmar. Libya. Pakistan."

But he'd chosen his clients carefully: only those who needed help, whose causes were just. The underdogs fighting for good. He'd learned that much from Juan.

Juan's brow smoothed, and he almost smiled. As always, he seemed to understand Eliot's thoughts. "You fought for the people."

"But that was different." Of course Eliot had killed in that capacity. It had been unavoidable. He'd even nonviolently — via poison, mixed up medications, even a convenient peanut allergy — taken out a few imminently dangerous high-level targets — terrorist leaders, third world dictators. Bad guys. But even that wasn't the same.

"Why?" Juan asked.

"Because this was personal." That was the Rottweiler's specialty. Personalized punishments.

Juan actually laughed. But it was dark and cynical and mirthless. It was jarring, and coming from Juan, Eliot found it unsettling.

The eerie laugh vanished as quickly as it had come, but its cold echo hung in the air, and in Juan's stony gaze.

"Of course it was personal, Eliot. You were protecting the people you care about now from a man who had a history of threatening, hurting, and killing people you were forced to leave behind eight years ago. It could never have been anything but personal for you. But tell me this." Juan brought Eliot's face so close to his that their foreheads were almost touching. "How did you do it?"

Eliot jerked backwards, but Juan held him tight. An immense wave of nausea washed over him. "What?"

Why was Juan asking him that?

Once again, Juan seemed to understand Eliot's thoughts. "I want to hear you say it. _You_ need to hear you say it. Out loud. How did you kill them?"

Eliot couldn't meet Juan's eyes as he said it. "With a gun. I shot them, and then I blew up the warehouse."

"Yes. A gun. In a firefight. Did you make them suffer?"

Eliot squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head again, trying to force the sights and sounds of the warehouse from his mind. "Why does it matter? I killed them."

"It would have mattered to the Rottweiler. He would have relished their suffering. Did you?"

"No!" Eliot nearly shouted. "I wasn't thinking about that. I had to get out of there."

The more Eliot attempted to wriggle from his grip, the tighter Juan held on. "What about Chapman?"

Eliot couldn't keep memory from surfacing.

_"You said you didn't like guns."_

_Eliot turned around slowly. "I don't." He emptied the gun into Chapman's chest and watched him slide, lifeless, down the crate. "Never said I couldn't use ''em."_

"What about Chapman?" Juan repeated. "Did you hurt him? Did you make him suffer for everything he'd done?"

The memory replayed again in Eliot's mind, but there was more to it than before.

_"You said you didn't like guns."_

_Eliot turned around slowly._

_Chapman._

_Eliot had never liked him. From the beginning Chapman had been a cocky asshole who was too big for his britches and jealous of the Rottweiler. But then he'd gone on to show his true colors, and Eliot had seen him for what he really was: a sick bastard who beat women — and children — and raped them because it turned him on. Eliot loathed the man. It was a visceral disgust that made the bile rise in his throat. Chapman had tortured Sarah, raped and brutally murdered her, and he had killed —_

_Suddenly Eliot remembered why he was there. Where was Nate? The Rottweiler was gone now. His job was done. Now, Eliot needed to make sure that Nate was okay. Had he found Moreau? Was Moreau even still in the country? What about Sophie and Parker and Hardison? Had they disabled the bomb? Were they alive? His heart pounded as Eliot Spencer remembered his job, his team — his family._

_He didn't give a fuck about Chapman. The bastard was in his way._

_"I don't." Eliot emptied the gun into Chapman's chest and watched him slide, lifeless, down the crate. "Never said I couldn't use 'em."_

_He ejected the magazines and threw the guns away. He had to find the team. They needed him._

"No," Eliot whispered. "I didn't make him suffer."

"Why not?" Juan prompted.

Eliot's breath caught in his throat, and he stared, mouth agape, at Juan Flores. How could this man — who Eliot had always respected as good, fair, and truly kind, though certainly not naïve — ask such a cold-hearted question?

"I — I needed to find the team."

"So what?" Juan's eyes were hard. "Chapman was the reason you were forced to kill the Perezes. He raped and tortured Sarah to death."

Eliot heart pounded, and his breathing became quick and ragged. "I didn't have time. I had to find the team."

"The Rottweiler would have made time." Juan's voice, usually warm and gentle, was so icy it gave Eliot chills. "Chapman killed Pete. He killed your best friend because he was aiming for you. So why didn't you make him suffer? Why didn't the Rottweiler do his worst?"

Eliot could barely breathe. He felt light-headed. What was happening? Why was Juan taunting him, trying to awaken the darkest part of him? How could he be so cruel?

He made a move to shove the old man, to put some distance between them, but Juan Flores was no shrinking violet. He was a soldier. He had fought in his country's war for independence, waged a second war against Damien Moreau for nearly two decades, been arrested and imprisoned in the Tombs — the deepest, most impenetrable prison in San Lorenzo — at least twice, been beaten into submission only a few days ago. He'd refused to be rescued unless his men came with him, and he'd taken part in a fake assassination and assisted in the toppling of a corrupt president just yesterday. Despite his recent political aspirations, he was first and foremost a general in his country's military, and regardless of his age, he was fully capable and perfectly willing to go toe-to-toe with an emotionally wrought, sleep-deprived Eliot Spencer.

So Eliot's shove resulted in an extraordinarily unequal and opposite reaction that almost knocked him off his feet and ended with his arms pinned helplessly to his side in the iron grip of General Juan Flores.

"Tell me, Spencer," the General barked, "why you didn't torture Chapman. Tell me what makes him and his men so special that even Moreau's Rottweiler didn't want to perform his personalized punishments on them. Tell me" — he shook Eliot hard — "why they're so God-damned different from everyone else you've killed!"

"Because I'm different!" Eliot shouted. "I don't do that anymore!"

At that, Juan's iron grip released him, and Eliot let out a gasp at what he'd just said, his mouth agape. He panted as though he'd just run several miles, but for the first time since the warehouse his breaths were deep and fresh and clear, as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his chest. He met the eyes of the man in front of him and they smiled back, kind and warm, and full of pride.

Juan brought a hand up to Eliot's face and pulled him close again, their foreheads almost touching.

"No," he said, and his tone was as gentle as when he'd told Eliot everything would be all right. "You don't do that anymore, _mijo_."

Eliot's vision blurred as the truth sank in — Juan wasn't disappointed. He didn't hate Eliot. And he still loved him. Like a son. _Mijo._

"Eliot, the Rottweiler is dead. He was in his death throes the night we met, and you dealt him his final blow when you made your choice not to kill me. He will always be a part of you, but you — are — not — him." Juan punctuated each word with a little jerk of his hand, causing Eliot's head to nod at each one. "You are not that man anymore. And you haven't been for nearly ten years."

But although he breathed easier, something still weighed on Eliot's heart. He bowed his head, a few tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Then why did I kill them?"

"Because," said Juan, lifting Eliot's chins so that their eyes met. "You were at war. You fought a battle, and you did whatever you had to in order to protect your team, these people you care about. In your shoes, I would have done the same thing."

Eliot broke Juan's gaze with a shake of his head. "No, you wouldn't."

"You're right," Juan conceded. "I would have tried. But I wouldn't have lived to tell about it."

"What the hell does that mean?" Eliot snapped.

Juan sighed, and his eyes were sad — no, _pained_. "It is the cruelest irony that in order to protect your team and your new life, in order to defeat your past, you had to call on the skills that made that past so dark. You have grown to hate the Rottweiler, and yet, it was your time in San Lorenzo, as the Rottweiler, that allowed you to walk out of that warehouse alive and defeat the very man who created him. It is the bitterest punishment I could imagine for you, to be forced to admit that, without your past, you could never have been able to live this future."

_"Without Moreau, there would be no Juan, and no us." _Sophie's words from the night before echoed in Eliot's head. _"Every choice we make affects our future in ways we don't understand, and maybe never will. What you did for him, and what you decided not to do, made you into our Eliot."_

The thought simultaneously lightened Eliot's heart and made him nauseous. Juan was right. The universe's idea of punishment was some sort of sick joke.

And yet, a part of him thought, he was finally reaping what he had sowed for so many years. Death was too easy for him. Someone capable of killing fourteen men and coming away without a scratch deserved a worse penance.

"Eliot, you know better than anyone that those men barely qualified as human." Once again, Juan seemed to read his thoughts. "You not only saved your team, but the lives of countless other innocents who might have become their victims in the future."

"That doesn't mean they deserved to die."

Juan's face hardened. "After everything Chapman did —?" He broke off, releasing Eliot and turning to the two graves that had been a silent audience to their conversation. "I will sleep better knowing that that bastard is rotting in hell," he spat. "He will never be able to harm anyone ever again." His brow furrowed as he shook his head. "You're a better man than I am, Eliot Spencer, if you mourn his death."

The comment made the bile rise in Eliot's throat. "I don't mourn his death. I just —" He, too, looked to Pete's grave. "I just wish I hadn't been the cause of it."

Juan rested a gentle hand on Eliot's arm. "So do I."

They were both silent for a few moments. Eliot stared at Pete's large, simple headstone, and couldn't help noticing how it contrasted with Sarah's small, elegant one. He wondered absently how much Pete had paid for it — knowing him, every cent he had, which was certainly not much, had gone toward the burials of her and her parents and the purchase of the plot next to her. Eliot's heart ached with longing for just one more conversation with Pete — the real one, not a ludicrous manifestation of his disturbed subconscious. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. Some of them were trivial, like how much he'd spent on the headstone; and some were stupid, like what he thought Matty and Maria should name the twins. But some were big — what would he have thought of Eliot's life now? Of the team? How would he have felt about Chapman's death? Would he have been happy that Sarah was avenged? Would he have been disappointed in Eliot for falling off the wagon? Or would he feel similar to the way Eliot felt now — oddly conflicted, relieved about the end of a life and guilty for relishing it? Would he have grieved the realization of his own revenge and sole reason for fighting, as well as Eliot's fall from the closest he'd been to grace since he'd left behind the man that could have been like Matty? Would Pete have thanked him for killing Chapman, or merely been disappointed that he'd become a killer again?

"You are a very different man than the grieving, guilty, detached one I last saw eight years ago."

Eliot started. He'd nearly forgotten about Juan, who was looking at him with intense interest.

"You mentioned that you killed others after you left," Juan continued, "but they weren't the same as what happened in that warehouse. That they didn't make you feel this way. Why not?"

Eliot clenched his jaw. He didn't want to keep talking about this. He'd had enough of talking about his feelings. And Juan knew the answer because Eliot had already said it. He wasn't that man anymore. No longer did he fight wars against people like Moreau — not like he used to, anyway. Now he fought them with grifts and hacks and thefts, not with violence.

"These people you are with now," said Juan, following Eliot's thoughts as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud. "They're a good influence on you. When you left here years ago, your soul was bleeding and your spirit was broken." He looked away. "I was so worried you'd go back to doing the types of things you used to do for Moreau. I hated that when you needed me most, I couldn't be there to save you."

His voice gave out, and he didn't speak for several moments. Eliot wondered if he was thinking about another young man he'd loved, whom he had also been unable to save.

Maybe Maria and Matty had been right — Juan _had_ lost a second son the night of his daughter's wedding. Eliot felt a surge of hatred for Moreau for causing Juan so much pain, and suddenly wished he'd given the son of a bitch a beating of his own the previous night.

"But you didn't fall back down." Juan smiled at Eliot, who couldn't tell if his eyes were brimming with tears of sadness or joy. "You chose to fight for other causes, for other groups of people who needed a champion. And then you found this team."

In between he'd stolen hundreds of items because other people paid him lots of money, but Eliot thought that maybe now wasn't the best time to mention that to Juan.

"Your team — you help people, and in each other you've all found a family to help yourselves, too. So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"

"Wha — ?" Eliot couldn't help but stutter. Of all the places the conversation had been heading, the last place he expected it to go was there. He was not prepared for that conversation. It was just like Juan, to lull him into a false sense of security and warm fuzzy feelings, and then hit him with a question like that. He remembered what Matty had said the other day, about Nate reminding him of Juan with his disturbing "ability to convince you to do whatever he wants," and Eliot had to admit that right now, he didn't know for sure that the emotional exhaustion of the past hour hadn't all been part of Juan's grand plan to soften him up just for this moment.

"You're not leaving them in danger, necessarily, but you are planning to leave, aren't you?"

Eliot opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't lie to Juan, and he had no idea what an acceptable answer might sound like.

That was apparently enough of an answer for Juan. "That's what I thought. My question stands: why?"

Why? The real question was _Why not?_ His dark past made him a danger to them — Moreau, though his most deadly enemy, was just the tip of the iceberg. And even if that wasn't enough to convince them — which, knowing them and their _We're a team_ mantra, it wouldn't be — the fact was that the acts he'd committed were light years past any line they might even begin to draw. He couldn't imagine how they'd look at him if he ever told them about the warehouse in D.C. or the Perez family.

Although Juan's piercing gaze was once again boring into Eliot's soul, he seemed to be patiently waiting for an answer to his question. Unsure how to put into words his true reasoning, he said the first thing that came to mind, which somehow summed up everything.

"They don't know me."

That answer seemed to surprise Juan — and that didn't happen very often.

"Don't know you? While it's true I haven't seen you all interact very much, Maria has, and you know how she likes to share." His mouth quirked up at the edges. "I heard that Parker told a knock-knock joke that succeeded in making you smile right at the moment when everyone thought you would explode — because you had been fighting with Matty. I heard that Hardison and Parker together can make you growl in fake annoyance and snap, 'Dammit, Hardison!" Those things sound to me an awful lot like how you used to interact with Pete."

He paused, waiting for a reaction from Eliot, who had decided not to say anything else until he understood Juan's point. He wasn't going to be caught off-guard again.

"I also heard," Juan continued, "that after your argument with Maria, when she asked to speak with you, every single one of them refused to budge, ready to fight for you, but it only took a word from you and they backed off. Not only do they know you, and quite well, but they are clearly willing to go to great lengths to protect you."

Eliot looked away. "They don't know the real me."

"They know the best parts of you," Juan said quietly. "Why do you think that's not the real you?"

Eliot clenched his fists. "I might not be the Rottweiler anymore, but two weeks ago, I killed fourteen men. _That's_ the real me."

"Is that what you think? That the real you is the sum of the worst parts of you?"

"It is when the worst parts outweigh the best ones."

Juan sighed heavily. "The night we met, we talked after you were captured. I told you then that you had done some horrible things, and that you would never be clean of them, but that that didn't mean you couldn't do good." He shook his head sadly. "Now I'm afraid that what I said has done more harm than good, that you focused too much on the first part and not on the second. Your team can see the good in you, Eliot. Why can't you?"

"The team doesn't know what I did in that warehouse."

"Nate does, and all you succeeded in doing was showing him that you're an even better man than he thought."

"Did he tell you that?" Eliot asked through gritted teeth. His fists were clenched tightly at his side, and he stared at the grass in front of Pete's headstone.

"He didn't have to," said Juan. "I think the others would feel the same way."

Somehow, Eliot highly doubted that. And as much as he respected Juan, he knew the man was dead wrong about Nate. The mastermind had tried to stop him from killing, and hadn't been able to look Eliot in the eyes since.

"Pete certainly would."

The words snapped Eliot from his reverie, and he looked again at Juan. "What?"

Juan smiled kindly. "I think Pete would be proud of you for everything that's happened over the past few years. You finally decided to live life again by finding people that you care about. You risked your life — and even a part of your soul — to keep them safe. You avenged his death and ensured that the man who killed him and Sarah can no longer hurt anyone, but showed remarkable restraint in doing so. And you finally returned to us, defeated Moreau, and saved San Lorenzo in the process. I think he'd agree with me that your best parts far outweigh the worst ones."

Juan bent over and picked up his jacket, which he'd dropped at some point during their conversation. From the inside pocket, he pulled two slightly squished, but still beautiful, long-stemmed red roses. He walked forward and placed one on Sarah's grave, and the other on Pete's. He paused for a moment in front of Pete's headstone, and then gave it a gentle pat. Then he looked at Eliot.

"Think about that before you run away."

He brought one hand to Eliot's cheek, stroking it with his thumb before giving it, too, a gentle pat. He put on his jacket and turned to leave.

"I have several meetings with President Vittori this afternoon, but I want to say goodbye before you go. What time is your flight?"

Eliot shook his head. "I'm not leaving."

Juan, who reacted to every type of news, good or bad, with a calm grace, was unable to conceal his obvious pleasure at Eliot's words. His eyebrows shot up his forehead, and his mouth fell open in a half-smile before he finally remembered himself and recovered, but it was too late — his reaction had already brought a grin to Eliot's face.

"But your team —" Juan's smile evaporated, his eyes darkening, and his speech became clipped. Disapproving. "Do you mean to say you're leaving them to stay here?"

Eliot felt a lump form in his throat as he thought about how much that disapproval was costing Juan, how much of his own happiness the man was willing to sacrifice for Eliot's well-being.

"No," he said, voice thick, before clearing his throat. "The jury's still out on that decision."

Juan's disapproval faded into wariness, and his ever expressive eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

Eliot's rush to explain the truth was the only way to show his gratitude for Juan's reactions. "We agreed last night to leave San Lorenzo and split up for two weeks, to lie low until the election and Moreau's arrest blow over. They're leaving today, but I'm going to spend my two weeks here."

Juan cocked an eyebrow, though Eliot could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Won't that be dangerous for you?"

Eliot shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't give a damn. I have eight years of catching up to do."

Juan beamed, and Eliot's heart soared. Nothing in the past twenty-four hours had made Eliot happier, not even Moreau's arrest. So when Juan seemed frozen in his surprised happiness, it was Eliot who, for the first time in their entire relationship, instigated the hug.

Juan held Eliot tight, with a hand resting on the back of his head, and whispered, "Welcome back, _mijo._ I've missed you."

The tightness in his chest, caused by an immense swelling of that formerly empty cavern, made it difficult for Eliot to breathe. His vision blurred, and the lump in his throat made him rasp, "I missed you, too."

They held each other for a few more seconds until Juan finally pulled away. He grabbed Eliot by the arms, like he always did, and said, "Scotch and cigars, tonight."

Eliot nodded, too happy to say anything else.

Juan sighed, but it was a happy one, only slightly tinted with exasperation. "I have meetings this afternoon, but I will see you later. A country to help run and all that." He winked, then, "I meant what I said about you running away. You'd be sacrificing more than you ever have before if you decide to leave."

Then he walked away and, with his back to Eliot, gave a wave. "Dinner's at six. Don't be late."

Eliot smiled at that, but the expression was gone as soon as Juan was. The decision he had to make weighed heavy on his heart.

"So?" said a voice behind him.

Eliot turned, and there was Pete, casually half-sitting, half-leaning on his own headstone, holding Juan's rose in one hand and a knife in the other. He grinned slyly, sniffing the rose and twirling the knife between his fingers in that badass way that Eliot had never taught him, but had often used in the years since to intimidate opponents.

"Wait — you think I'm a badass?" Pete stopped what he was doing with his hands, dropped them to his side, and pushed himself off the tombstone, taking an eager step toward Eliot. "Seriously?" Then, with a tremor of excitement eerily reminiscent of Hardison, he pumped his fist. "Aw, man, that is so cool!"

Eliot smiled, letting Pete enjoy the moment while thinking to himself how much he wished he'd been able to tell that to the real Pete, before cocking an eyebrow and saying, "You done?"

"That depends. You done deflecting? Because Juan's right, you know. About everything."

Pete resumed his previous suavely badass position against the tombstone, holding the rose to his face and twirling the knife.

"So," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "What's it going to be?"


	25. Chapter 25

_This chapter is considerably shorter than the last dozen or so. This is because it was actually part of a much longer chapter which I haven't yet finished, and rather than make you wait until the whole thing is finished, I decided to publish this little part. I know I've been absent for a while, and I apologize, but sometimes being in Eliot's head is just too much and I need a break. Thanks to all of you who have left reviews, even if I haven't responded to them - they keep me writing! And thank you to everyone who is still reading - the end is nigh, I promise (if only everyone would stop talking and let me wrap up)!_

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Chapter 25

It was two-thirty in the afternoon when Eliot finally returned to the hotel. He'd spent nearly three hours in the car attempting to make a decision about whether or not he would stay with the team, and the only thing he had to show for it was a list of replacement hitters for Nate. Every time he decided to leave, after weighing the pros and cons in a logical and detached internal argument, his mind tossed out the result and started again at the beginning.

The good news was that Pete's voice — disembodied or … not — was no longer in his head. At least, the rational part of him thought that was good news; there was another part of him that, unhealthy as it was, missed the constant nagging and joking of his dead best friend.

The bad news was that, although Pete was no longer actively commenting on Eliot's every thought and action, his words still echoed in Eliot's head. So did Juan's. It was their comments that kept forcing him to go back to the beginning every time he thought he'd finally made up his mind. They had an answer for everything.

_"Your team — you help people, and in each other you've all found a family to help yourselves, too. So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"_

He had to leave. It was for the best.

_"Why do you always run away? For the best hitter in the business, you're pretty cowardly when it comes to the people you care about."_

He wasn't being a coward; he was trying to protect them.

_ "You'd give your life for them — and when was the last time you cared enough about someone to do that? But you know what? They'd do the same for you in a heartbeat. When was the last time you allowed someone to love you enough to do that?"_

That was the problem. He'd promised himself he would never again allow someone else to die for his mistakes.

_"These people you are with now, they're a good influence on you."_

True. But so were Juan and Pete, and they were still influencing him years later, even when they weren't around. He didn't have to put the team in danger for them to have a good influence on him.

_"They all need you, El. Almost as much as you need them."_

Debatable. They cared about him, yes. But need? Why would anyone need him?

_"Your team can see the good in you, Eliot. Why can't you?"_

They only saw the good because that's what they wanted to see. They didn't really know him.

_"They know the best parts of you. Why do you think that's not the real you?"_

Because he killed fourteen men in a warehouse two weeks ago.

_"You were defending yourself, and you were protecting your team. You weren't killing innocents, you were fighting a war. If you hadn't done what you did, you would be dead, and Nate, and your team. You saved us all."_

Why didn't that change anything? He couldn't fathom telling the team the truth. He couldn't even look Nate in the eyes.

_"All you succeeded in doing was showing him that you're an even better man than he thought."_

_"You started to run from him first. He's tried to talk to you, but you're too much of a coward to even look him in the eyes."_

He wasn't a coward. He just couldn't bear to think of disappointing any of them.

_"You haven't given them the chance."_

But what if they hated him? He wasn't strong enough to live through that.

_"Promise you won't close up again. Death's too easy, but so's life if you never live it."_

In the end, that's what it all came down to. He already felt like he'd broken his promise to Pete; the thought of doing so again felt like a deliberate slap in the face to Pete's memory. But staying with the team frightened him.

Then again, so did leaving them. Just the thought made his chest ache with empty loneliness. He didn't want to be alone anymore.

_"So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"_

He sighed heavily. Back to the beginning. Again.

He was walking down the hall toward his hotel room when he saw Hardison. Even worse, Hardison saw him, so there was no avoiding a conversation.

The hacker was carrying a duffel bag, which was odd; his luggage always consisted of a messenger bag with his laptop and a wheeled bag of some sort that carried all the rest of his assorted gadgets. Duffel bags were too heavy; the few times he'd been forced to carry them were always accompanied by intense whining.

"Where have you been?" Hardison demanded. "We've been worried sick."

Eliot forced a growl, but the real anxiety in Hardison's tone did not escape him. "Around. So sorry I didn't tell you where I was going beforehand, dear."

"Come on, is that really too much to ask? And don't pretend like you were all innocent. I tried tracking your phone, but you turned it off. How many times do I have to tell you —"

"What's all that?" Eliot attempted to head off the tirade he knew was coming.

It worked. Hardison grinned.

"Knick-knacks. We just stole a country. I want souvenirs."

Without warning, Eliot felt himself overcome by a memory before he could stop it.

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Eliot had just finished his sub-par infirmary breakfast. The nurse had taken away everything but the pudding, which she'd left in case he "got hungry later." Fat chance. There was a reason he hadn't touched it — it was tapioca. He hated tapioca. You'd think getting stabbed would have at least gotten him some chocolate.

He lay back and closed his eyes in an attempt to get a little bit of rest before —

A knock sounded, and without waiting for a response, Pete Rodriguez barged into the room and asked, in the most annoyingly chipper tone possible at this hour, "Good morning! How are you feeling?"

Eliot sighed. Three days ago, he had saved Juan's life and gotten stabbed by Rodriguez — with his own knife — for his trouble. The doctors refused to let him leave the infirmary for another few days, and they'd essentially condemned him to complete bed-rest until then. So he was stuck, bored out of his mind, going stir-crazy, with awful food — _Tapioca?_ — and to top it off, Pete Rodriguez insisted on "keeping him company" every damned minute.

Yes, Juan had asked Eliot to help Rodriguez. _"He doesn't have anyone,"_ he'd said. And yes, Rodriguez was a good kid with a good heart and a bad story, the particulars of which Eliot still didn't know. But Eliot hardly had any patience left after three days of Rodriguez's constant "company." He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

Rodriguez flopped into the chair next to Eliot's bed. "Ooh, tapioca. Are you going to eat that?"

Eliot slapped his hand as he reached for the pudding. "Yes, I am. And I'm feeling just peachy, trapped in bed in this room, going nuts, with absolutely no escape in sight."

At the phrase _No escape_, Rodriguez frowned at the floor, face flushing.

Eliot got a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. _"He doesn't have anyone," _Juan's words echoed in his head. _"I think you would be good for him."_ Oh yeah, Moreau's Rottweiler, who three days ago had begged to die from a measly flesh wound, was definitely the right man to get this kid back on track.

Before Eliot could think of how to fix what he'd just said, Rodriguez looked up. His too-watery eyes made Eliot feel even worse.

Rodriguez cleared his throat and said, in a voice that seemed to be trying with all its might to stay steady and failing miserably, "Right. I just stopped in really quick to give you this."

Careful to look nonchalant, he tossed a tiny bundle onto Eliot's lap, which Eliot unwrapped. It was a knife.

_The _knife.

Rodriguez stood to leave. "Thought you might want it back."

"Why would I want a knife that someone else stabbed me with?"

It was an honest question, but Eliot realized too late how harsh it sounded. Rodriguez winced, blinking rapidly and biting his lip, as if trying not to cry.

He tried to shrug casually and even gave a valiant effort toward a smirk. "I dunno, a souvenir?"

Eliot attempted to dispel Rodriguez's hurt with a smile. "You keep it, then."

Rodriguez didn't meet Eliot's gaze, but he flushed again, mumbled, "Right, sorry," and reached for the knife.

Eliot almost yelled in frustration. He sucked at this. All he was doing was making things worse. What the hell had Juan been thinking?

But instead he firmly but gently grabbed Rodriguez's wrist with one hand and snatched the knife up in the other.

"Sit down, Pete," he said as kindly as possible.

He released Rodriguez's wrist only when it was clear the kid was sitting and not preparing to bolt, though he still refused to meet Eliot's eyes. Eliot held out the knife, handle first, and gave it a little wave until Rodriguez looked up.

"I'm giving it to you."

Rodriguez frowned, but took the knife. "Why?"

Eliot kept his tone light and his smile genuine. "Well, first of all, it's just a little weird to use a knife that was used to stab me. Call it a superstition." He winked, and the wrinkles on Rodriguez's brow smoothed a little bit. "Second, you're going to need a knife to practice with once we start lessons, and I know you're already used to that one."

Rodriguez's face lit up, and his smile was so big and contagious Eliot couldn't have kept a straight face if he'd tried. "Lessons?"

"I told you before that you're a danger to yourself and others without training. So consider that a souvenir of what happens if you don't practice."

Rodriguez beamed, turning the knife over in his hands. "Yeah. Okay."

"We can start as soon as they let me out of this god-forsaken place," Eliot grumbled. He pushed the pudding toward Rodriguez. "You can have it. I hate tapioca."

Rodriguez grinned sheepishly. "So do I. I was just trying to make conversation earlier. You'd think that when you get injured fighting for your country, the least they could do is give you chocolate."

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Eliot smiled. That was how the memories were now, after the visit to Pete's grave. Ever since he'd returned to San Lorenzo, he had attempted to repress them, which was like trying to hold back the sea at high tide and only resulted in Pete's disembodied voice irritating him, like so many grains of sand, until he lost his footing and the memories bowled him over, nearly drowning him. But now, Eliot allowed them wash over him like gentle waves, bracing for impact so that he could remain standing with his head above water. Moving on meant remembering without reliving; though the memories still hurt, the pain was a dull ache, not a sharp pang. Sometimes they even made him smile.

He was doing just that when he heard Hardison ask, "Where's your luggage?"

Luggage? Crap, what had they been talking about? Memories, souvenirs, duffel bags — luggage. Hardison was asking why he wasn't packed.

The real answer was that he hadn't been back to his room since the morning of the election — had that really been yesterday, because it seemed like months ago — and even if he had been there recently, he had no reason to pack yet because he wasn't leaving with the team today. But he wasn't about to tell that to Hardison just then, in the middle of the hallway. He only intended to have that conversation once, with the whole team present.

So he said the first thing he could think of that would get Hardison to focus on something else.

"I don't travel with luggage."

Before Hardison could even begin to respond to such a ridiculous comment, Parker came up behind them, dragging — no, wheeling — an enormous trunk of who knew what, and because Eliot didn't want any part of _that_ conversation, he said, "I'm going to go get Nate," and headed toward the mastermind's room.

He knocked, wondering why he hadn't heard anything from Nate or Sophie this morning.

"Geez," said Hardison. "What have you got up in here, Parker, some of Moreau's gold bars?"

Eliot knocked again, this time calling Nate's name, his pulse speeding up. Why wasn't Nate answering? Could Moreau have gotten to him somehow?

"Hey," said Parker. "You got your souvenirs, I got mine."

Eliot's heart jumped to his throat, and he whirled around just as the elevator doors closed on Hardison and Parker. She'd been joking, right? Even Parker wasn't so foolhardy as to sneak into Damien Moreau's mansion just to steal some gold.

Who was he kidding? This was _Parker_.

The thought of her in that mansion that he knew so well — in which he'd committed too many cold-blooded acts and which he himself had mercilessly secured against intruders — angered and frightened him so much that he smashed his shoulder into the door without even thinking.

It wasn't until he heard Nate's groggy grumbling that he realized he'd just broken into a hotel room — _Nate's_ hotel room. But the relief that coursed through him at the fact that the mastermind was safe was such that he didn't even have to fake a smile as he made an excuse.

"Let's go! Take-off!"

Nate moaned. "Yeah, I was just — I had a couple last night. You know, a drink, just to celebrate."

Of course. Nate hadn't been around because he was hungover, not because Moreau had gotten to him. Eliot laughed at his own idiocy, too relieved to tell anything but the truth. "I don't care, man. Moreau's gone."

As he stared at Nate, who was still in bed and in his undershirt, Eliot wracked his brain for something to add, something to distract from the fact that he'd just barged in on Nate after breaking down a door — add that to the hotel bill, along with all the exploded pillows.

"You're a free man," he said with a smile. "Things are back to normal."

Shit, that was the wrong thing to say. Whatever decision Eliot made about the team, things were the opposite of normal between him and Nate. Before the mastermind could say anything in response, Eliot gave the doorjamb a quick knock and left.

In the hallway, he leaned up against the wall for a moment to gather himself. _Things are back to normal._ Things would never be normal again. Nate knew what he'd done in the warehouse, and the bastard was smart enough to extrapolate about the types of things he'd done for Moreau.

_"All you succeeded in doing was showing him that you're an even better man than he thought."_

No, all he'd succeeded in doing was showing Nate Ford — the man so honest and guilt-ridden he wouldn't even let them break him out of prison — what type of man he still was. Eliot couldn't work for someone who would always see him as a monster.

That decided it. No more debating. He was leaving. He had to.

He took a deep breath and knocked on Sophie's door — literally two steps down from Nate's. That meant they were connected, Eliot thought absently. Huge security risk, sharing a door with the next room over.

He heard scuffling from inside the room and a shout of, "One minute!" before the door was thrown open, revealing Sophie in a flowery, satin robe. She was flushed, out of breath, and her hair was a mess.

Eliot blinked. He'd never seen her so disheveled. His heart started to pound again. "Are you okay, Soph?"

The grifter beamed. "Of course," she panted. "I just — I was in the bathroom when I heard a bang next door, followed by Nate grumbling and you talking about take-off." She waved her hands haphazardly. "I threw on my robe and rushed to the door before you could break mine down, too."

Dammit. She'd heard that. He was such an idiot. "Right, well, we need to get going, so …" He ran a hand through his hair and went to leave. "Meet you outside."

"Eliot."

He turned around to see her standing with her arms wrapped around herself and her brow furrowed slightly. She looked almost awkward. "Did you … find what you needed last night?"

Their conversation at the bar the previous evening came back to him in flashes — him crying on her shoulder, her and Mind Pete encouraging him to face the past, her tearfully begging him not to leave the team, her suggesting that he speak with Moreau. She'd helped him more than she would ever know, and he was grateful.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I did."

She smiled then. It was a genuine Sophie smile, not her grifter one, and Eliot couldn't help but return it. He felt a warmth spread through him. Seeing her smile made him happy, and she was smiling because she'd helped him. Because she cared about him.

The warmth swelled to fill the emptiness in his chest. It wasn't a gaping hole of loneliness anymore, but a solid sense of belonging that he wanted to grasp tightly and never let go.

_"So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"_

His chest deflated like a balloon.

Back to the beginning. Again.

Sophie sighed contentedly. "Well, I'd better finish getting dressed. Meet you at the airport in a few."

She closed the door before he could say anything more.

He turned and walked toward the stairs, pulling out his phone to send a text to Hardison: _Meet you at the airport._

The response was quick and short: _OK._

He didn't want to be with anyone right now. He'd be taking the long way to the airport.

He needed the time to think.


	26. Chapter 26

_Thank you everyone, as always, for reading and reviewing, and special thanks to Valawenel and quirkapotamus for your betas._

* * *

San Lorenzo had only one airport. It was surprisingly crowded, swarming with tourists, U.N. election inspectors, and even three people Eliot suspected were agents of various intelligence agencies undercover as either tourists or election inspectors. He made sure to watch those last few until they boarded their respective planes.

He saw Nate first, impossible to miss in one of his hats and a loud Hawaiian shirt — he was clearly going for the tourist cover. Across the ticketing area, Hardison and Parker were talking together, pretending to be a couple, which made Eliot smile.

He parked himself off to the side, holding a phone to his ear. All three slowly and nonchalantly moved in his general direction.

"Hello, darling!" came a female voice behind him.

He turned, and Sophie, head covered by a scarf, embraced him.

"What took you so long?" she said into his shoulder. "We were starting to get worried." Then she pulled away and waved at Parker and Hardison, who ran over.

"It's so wonderful to see you!" She hugged each of them in turn.

Nate came up behind Eliot. "Good morning. Did everyone enjoy their stay?"

Nate's smile was tight. Fake.

No one moved to give Nate a hug — not even Sophie.

"Good morning!" Sophie responded. "Yes, I had a wonderful stay!" Her answer was a little too loud and a little too late to be real.

Eliot raised an eyebrow at Hardison and Parker, who looked as flummoxed as he was.

To preserve some semblance of their cover, Eliot extended his hand to Nate without meeting his eyes.

Nate took it, clearing his throat and giving the smile another try — still fake. "You broke down my door and all I get is a handshake?"

"Wait, what?" asked Hardison.

"He wasn't answering," Eliot growled. "No one had seen him all day. For all I knew, maybe Moreau had —"

He stopped as he saw the looks on the faces of his team. Parker was wide-eyed; Hardison's mouth was frozen in a smirk. Sophie frowned in concern, and Nate's brow was furrowed deeply.

At least no one looked fake anymore.

"If I had known my hangover would worry you so much, I wouldn't have gotten drunk last night," Nate murmured.

"Somehow I doubt that," Eliot snapped.

They stood in a circle, like they always did before they split up. Parker was to Eliot's right, then Hardison, Sophie, and Nate to Eliot's left. He felt the tension in every one of them.

Sophie opened her mouth to speak, but Nate bowled right over her. "Hardison, do you have the tickets?"

Eliot was glad for the reprieve, even if it came from Nate. He didn't want to talk about what he was feeling. Mostly because he didn't know how he was feeling.

"Yup." Hardison handed them each a ticket, a passport, a credit card, and a wad of cash. "Five tickets to anywhere but here."

There was a long, familiar pause. This always happened. None of them wanted to be the first to leave.

"Do we have to split up?" Parker's voice was small. "I hate it when we split up."

"Yes," said Nate. "Two weeks, like we agreed. Until the furor of the election dies down."

Another pause, and Eliot's heart pounded. He needed to tell them he wasn't leaving San Lorenzo. He looked at his ticket: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

"Thank you," said Nate. "All of you. We took down Damien Moreau and saved a country from a corrupt president. I have never been prouder of this team than I am right now."

Eliot looked down and stuck his thumbs in his belt to keep his hands from shaking.

"I know this was a difficult job," Nate continued. "For everyone. But it's done. Moreau is gone. We're all safe."

Eliot swallowed in an attempt to dispel the painful lump in his throat. He felt the team watching him, but he didn't dare look up.

"Thank you," Nate said.

In the silence that followed, Eliot could only stare at the blurry floor and try to control his breathing.

It was done. Moreau was finished.

"See you back in Boston in two weeks." Nate was suddenly all business again.

"Wait!" The urgency in Parker's voice stopped everyone in their tracks. "How come Eliot gets to go to Brazil? I love Rio, and it's nice and warm there this time of year."

Everyone except for Hardison rolled their eyes, though in frustration or relief that it wasn't something worse, Eliot wasn't sure.

"Mama, you have an outstanding warrant in Brazil."

"So I have to go to Zagreb? It's freezing there right now! Eliot, will you switch?"

Hardison sighed. "Eliot liberated Croatia. There are people there that don't like him."

"I'd like to go to Paris," Sophie chimed in. "Can I change my ticket?"

"Are you people kidding me?" asked Hardison. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to coordinate this type of thing? I have to use aliases that aren't known in the countries you're going to, cross-check that with warrants you might have in the region and make sure those aliases aren't on them. It's a nightmare! And now you're all whining about the weather where you want to go. I'm _so sorry _I didn't take that into account when I booked the tickets!"

He paused to take a breath, and Eliot looked around the circle. Everyone was smiling. Even Hardison didn't look as annoyed as he pretended to be. No one said anything for a moment as they all looked at each other.

Hardison's face broke into an enormous grin. "We just stole a country. I ran a digital campaign and convinced the world that Vittori won the election."

"They named a girls' school after me!" Sophie's excitement seemed, if possible, to have actually increased since the previous night.

Parker's eyes gleamed. "Your face is going to be on the money. How cool is that? And _I_ got to break into and back out of an inescapable prison — through a steam vent!" She was bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet.

"Moreau is in prison," Nate said quietly. "The job is done."

"No more of that Italian woman." Sophie's words had a sharp edge to them.

"Nate's not going back to jail," Parker added.

"And she can't —" Nate stopped and seemed to change course mid-sentence. "She won't bother us anymore. Things are back to normal."

Again, Nate failed to give a convincing smile; this time it was too big. Eliot knew it was because of the Italian. Nate had always been hiding something from them about her. He'd said that she threatened to throw him back in prison if they failed, but Nate Ford's self-preservation instincts were practically non-existent. Eliot had always known that there was more to it than that, and though he wasn't entirely sure what, he had his suspicions.

"What about you, Eliot?" asked Parker. "Are you feeling better?"

Eliot could feel all their eyes on him. Although Parker was the only one unsubtle enough to ask the question, it was obvious they all wanted to know the answer.

So he decided, for the first time since he'd confessed his past with Moreau, to tell them the truth.

"The General is no longer in the Tombs, and Moreau will never leave them." He gave a fake smile of his own. "That's the best outcome I could have hoped for."

Three faces smiled back at him. The fourth was focused on the floor, but seemed disproportionately pleased with himself.

Eliot's heart raced, but he forced himself to continue. Now was as good a time as any to tell them.

"This is the first time I've been back to San Lorenzo in eight years. Now that I don't have to leave —" He ripped up his ticket. "I'm not going to."

The silence that followed his statement grew long and cold. The warmth of just a minute ago was gone. Eliot had expected them to argue. Instead, three stunned faces stared back at him.

The fourth continued staring at the floor.

Hardison was the first to speak. "You're the one who said we had to get out of the country until the heat died down."

Sophie frowned and looked away.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Parker's tone was fierce and accusatory; her eyes brimmed with tears.

Eliot's breath caught in his throat. Is that what they were thinking? He wasn't ready for this conversation. He hadn't made _that_ decision yet.

"What?" Hardison looked shocked. Betrayed.

"Are you?" Sophie, too, looked on the verge of tears.

Only one of them didn't do or say anything. The only one who knew the truth.

_"All you succeeded in doing was showing him that you're an even better man than he thought."_

Juan was dead wrong about Nate.

A sudden pain shot through Eliot's heart, and it was then that he realized: he'd secretly been hoping Nate would try to stop him. That he would announce that he was leaving and Nate would tell him that no, they needed him, he couldn't leave. He _shouldn't_ leave. That nothing had changed, that what had happened in the warehouse didn't matter. That he didn't think any less of Eliot — in fact, it showed him how much Eliot was willing to sacrifice for the team. For _him_. That they were a family.

Eliot blinked rapidly to dispel the sting of tears. Why did that rejection hurt so much? He should have expected it.

He always disappointed eventually.

But that was a conversation for another time. Or never.

He cleared his throat and forced an annoyed roll of his eyes. With all the grumpiness he could muster, he growled, "I didn't say that, Parker. I said I was staying here in San Lorenzo instead of going to Brazil."

He could never lie to Parker, but this wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth.

"Oh." The relief was visible on Parker's face. Hardison's too. The tension around the circle seemed to dissipate somewhat.

Sophie's intent gaze told Eliot she wasn't completely convinced, but she said nothing.

Nate continued to stare at the floor. But he could go fuck himself for all Eliot cared.

"So you're going to stay here for two weeks?" asked Parker. "Why? What are you going to do?"

"That's an excellent question, Parker," came a male voice behind Eliot. "I've been wondering exactly the same thing."

.

.

.

Eliot whirled around as Matty and Maria, walking arm in arm, joined their circle between him and Nate. They both looked lighter, happier, and years younger than they had the previous night, although Matty wore a hard, grim smile that embodied the tone of his comment.

Maria shot him a warning glance before beaming at the team, but Matty didn't take his eyes off of Eliot.

In spite of that, Sophie's brightest grifter smile actually almost succeeded in relaxing Eliot — damn, she was good. "This is quite unexpected, though certainly not unwelcome."

"Papa wanted to come too, but he couldn't get away." Maria shook her head. "He's awfully busy now, as Minister of State, though he did mention he'd talked to each of you today or last night. But we weren't going to let you leave without saying goodbye."

"Again," Matty muttered.

Eliot gritted his teeth.

"Matty," Maria chided. "Papa told us Eliot's staying here for a few weeks, and Eliot just said it again right now."

Matty crossed his arms, his stony gaze boring into Eliot. "Yeah, well, _llámame Tomás_."

Eliot's Spanish might have been rusty, but he'd heard that phrase often enough — usually from Matty — that it was burned into his memory. Literally, it translated to _Call me Thomas_, but it was an idiom, and like most things uniquely San Lorenzan, it was religious in origin. It referred to the apostle of Jesus, commonly referred to as Doubting Thomas, who refused to believe that Jesus had risen from the dead until he saw it with his own eyes and placed his hand in the man's wounds.

Roughly translated, Matty was saying, _Seeing is believing_.

"You want proof, Ramirez?" Eliot snapped. He held up what used to be his ticket. "This was my plane ticket. I'm staying here for the next two weeks."

Matty gave the scraps of paper barely a glance and cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "Isn't that dangerous for you? To hang out at the scene of the crime?"

At that, Eliot felt a ripple of tension spread through the circle. The team was no longer giving off a welcoming vibe. Sophie's smile had sharpened, Parker's eyes flashed darkly, and Hardison widened his stance, crossing his arms. Nate was levying a glare at Matty that surprised Eliot in its menace, and Eliot suddenly felt the circle tighten, as if the team was closing rank.

_"They are clearly willing to go to great lengths to protect you."_ Juan's words floated across Eliot's memory.

But Eliot didn't need to be protected, and certainly not by the team.

He forced his face into a blankly innocent look, but his tone was affably defiant. "Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight. Like at the home of the Commanding General of the San Lorenzo Armed Forces." He smiled as Matty's jaw clenched, and took a step forward. "Why, General? Are you going to arrest me?"

Maria sucked in a breath and squeezed Matty's arm. Eliot felt the circle tighten another notch.

Matty's eyes narrowed. "I have a feeling that wouldn't go over well with certain members of my family." One side of his mouth curled up into a sneer. "And anyway, the things I'd like to arrest you for aren't technically crimes."

Eliot's winced as the words hit their mark.

_Matty was straightening his tux in front of a mirror. Eliot met the gaze of his reflection._

_"I'm — is there anything I can do?"_

_"You've done enough."_

Even after all these years, Matty still blamed Eliot for Pete's death. The realization made Eliot's chest ache with such acute pain that his eyes stung. Matty wasn't being fair, but Eliot remembered why it was so dangerous to taunt him: his fangs were sharp, and when provoked, he struck without hesitation.

"What makes you think you're even welcome here?" Matty snapped.

The fangs struck yet again, their venom seeping into Eliot's heart, causing his pulse to race. Was that true? Did no one want him to stay?

"Juan —" he rasped.

"Of course Juan wants you here. He's always had a soft spot for you." Matty tone was biting. Poisonous. "I'm talking about the rest of the people you unceremoniously left behind. The ones you didn't keep in touch with." He looked away, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Or say goodbye to."

The raw emotion in those last words sliced through Eliot's heart more swiftly and painfully than anything Matty had said before, and he recalled something Maria had said during their conversation the previous morning.

_"You just left, Eliot. You didn't say goodbye. I think that hurt Matty even more than it hurt me, because he's lost so many people in his life, and he never got to say goodbye to any of them."_

Eliot's anger faded, a confused disbelief taking its place. Was that what Matty had meant by "not technically crimes"? That Eliot had left without saying goodbye? He'd never thought Matty would miss him; if anything, he'd imagined Matty would rejoice at his absence.

He blinked. Maybe Mind Pete had been right — he and Matty did need to have a talk.

Just not yet.

"That's why I'm staying here for two weeks. I have eight years to catch up on."

Matty looked up sharply at the sudden softness of Eliot's voice, and he raised a wary eyebrow. "Eight years in two weeks?

Eliot shrugged. "It's a start."

"And when the two weeks are over?" Matty asked bitterly. "Will you leave for another eight years?"

"I don't have to stay away anymore. I can return whenever I want. And I intend to do it often." Eliot held Matty's gaze. "I'm staying for the next two weeks, Ramirez."

Matty swallowed.

"Let me guess," said Eliot before Matty could say anything. "_Llámame Tomás_? How's this then?" He tossed Matty his passport and money. "Hold onto those for me. I won't need 'em for a couple weeks."

He was conscious of small smiles spreading around the circle. Matty's eyes widened as he realized what Eliot had given him, but Eliot still didn't give him a chance to respond before adding one more piece of evidence for Doubting Matty.

"I'm not even packed. All my stuff is still at the hotel."

Eliot barely had time to register Matty's quick and discerning glance around the circle at everyone else's bags when Hardison interrupted, his hands forming a _T_.

"Whoa, time out. So when you said" — he narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice into a gravelly growl — "'I don't travel with luggage,' that wasn't true?"

Before Eliot could even start to object to Hardison's horrendous impression of him, Matty let out a snort.

"You told him that?" Matty smirked, and his eyes glittered with a humor so familiar and, in spite of the ache that throbbed briefly in Eliot's chest, welcome, that Eliot returned the smirk.

Then, to Eliot's — and, from the faces around the circle, everyone else's — surprise, Matty actually laughed out loud. "What did you think, Hardison, that he buys new underwear everywhere he goes?"

"Well, excuse the hell outta me for not thinking about the nitty-gritty details of Eliot's _underwear_."

"You probably believe it when he says he only sleeps ninety minutes a day, too." Matty shot another glance Eliot's way, and Eliot's smirk turned into a grin.

Hardison's eyes widened as he turned to Eliot, indignant. "Aw, come on, man! Is everything you tell me a lie? All that 'very distinctive' crap — ?"

"Actually that's real." Matty was serious now. "He's saved my life a few different times by noticing 'very distinctive' things."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the circle. Eliot wasn't sure Matty had intended to say that much, and immediately wished he hadn't.

"So Eliot saved your life, too, just like the General?" Parker's question gave voice to the palpable interest of the group. "How many halves?"

"I saved his life, too," Matty said, a little too defensively. "And we count in whole numbers." Another glance at Eliot. "Double-digit whole numbers."

"One of us does," Eliot muttered.

"I got to ten a couple of months before the wedding." Eliot couldn't help but smile as Matty rounded on him. "We are even now, Spencer."

In spite of his words, Matty looked as if he was trying not to smile himself.

"It's not a competition," said Sophie.

"Yes, it is!" Eliot and Matty protested at the same time.

They grinned at each other. The circle fell into an awkward silence, and a memory forced its way to the front of Eliot's mind.

.

.

.

"If I hadn't pulled you down, Spencer, you would have been hit. That counts."

Eliot scoffed across the table at Matty. "Even if I had been hit, which we have no way of knowing, it would have been a graze. That's hardly saving my life."

Matty rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. If you hearing a 'very distinctive' snap of a twig counts as saving my life, this counts, too."

The commanders, who had just gathered for the meeting, followed the exchange like a tennis match. The General sat at the head of the table, a vaguely amused look on his face.

Eliot pointed a finger at Matty. "It was not a twig, Ramirez. It was the sound of a British Army issue steel-toed boot, which I know most of Moreau's men wear. And if I hadn't heard it —"

Pete flopped into the chair next to Eliot, throwing his head back dramatically. "Oh my God. Are you two _still_ arguing about this? Why don't you just whip ''em out and see whose is bigger?"

Everyone stared, wide-eyed, in the stunned silence that followed. Eliot's felt his face heat; the crimson shade of Matty's face was only a small consolation.

"For the record, mine's biggest," said Pete.

The room burst into laughter. Eliot managed a small smirk, but he and Matty exchanged a mortified glance.

"General, I'm assuming you want an account of the mission?" Pete asked. Without waiting for a response, he gave his report. "We were pinned down at the beginning. El saved Matty's life by identifying the sound of boots, Matty saved El's life by pulling him out of the line of fire, then they both worked together to save my life after I was knocked out cold by a piece of flying debris. I'm fine, thanks for asking, although it's pretty clear that the person leading the mission was the one least qualified to do so."

At the last part, Pete dropped his gaze, looking slightly abashed.

Eliot and Matty started to speak over each other.

"Getting knocked out doesn't make you a bad commander —"

"This mission was a success because of you, Pete —"

Pete looked up suddenly, an enormous grin on his face. "Aw, thanks guys." He turned to the room. "The one thing they can agree on."

More laughter, and the glint in Pete's eyes told Eliot that his previous dismay had merely been a ploy to provoke them, and that they had responded exactly as expected.

"I know I'm a good commander. I have to be, because working with you two is like dealing with a couple of toddlers." Pete spoke to the room again, raising his hand. "Show of hands: on a scale of one to ten, how messed up is it that they keep a constant tally of who saved whom?"

Several commanders frowned.

"That doesn't make sense," said Matty.

Eliot shook his head. "How can they show a scale with their hands — ?"

"Ten! It's a ten!" Pete was riled now. "That's weird, guys. It's not a competition. You don't have to turn everything into a dick-measuring contest." He sighed heavily, then turned to the General. "Oh, and we accomplished the mission, we found the intel, good times were had by all. Any questions?"

The General smiled. "None at all. Excellent debrief, Pete."

.

.

.

Eliot's head spun as he tried to parse out his emotions. How had they gotten to this moment? Hadn't he and Matty been sniping at each other just a minute ago? And then what? Hardison had interrupted, and he and Matty had gone right into their banter so naturally that they'd forgotten what the hell they'd been arguing about. Eliot's heart sank. Pete had always been able to do that with them, to either embarrass them into submission or get them to make jokes at his expense — or both. And that was exactly what had just happened. _Without_ Pete. And it had been so natural and familiar, like Eliot hadn't been gone for eight years.

An immense sadness hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He remembered the look in Matty's eyes, the hitch in his voice, when he'd mentioned Eliot not saying goodbye; the cynical tone of Matty the idealist saying _Llámame Tomás_, the bitterness as he asked if Eliot would leave again for another eight years. For the first time, Eliot felt a sense of loss as he thought of when he'd left San Lorenzo — not for Pete, or Juan, or the life he'd left behind, but for Matty. Had they been … _friends_? Amid all the jealousy and resentment, antagonism and one-upmanship, had they actually grown to care for one another? Had Eliot's abrupt absence earned him an honored place on the too-long list of people Matty had lost in his life? Eliot suddenly felt like something was sitting on his chest. He found himself glad that he hadn't come to the realization before; it would have made leaving all the more painful.

And yet, as he held Matty's gaze, sadness was not the primary emotion he felt. He saw something in Matty's eyes he wasn't sure he'd ever seen there before — hope. It burned like a fire, almost childlike in its innocence, and it was somehow both enhanced and tempered by the tentative quirk of Matty's lips. Although he hardly dared allow it, Eliot felt a cautious optimism of his own. Was it possible that he and Matty could make amends after all these years? Could they somehow reach a point where Eliot could call Matty a friend? Eliot had so few of those nowadays that he could literally count them on one hand. Matty's friendship would be even more precious to him now than it would have been eight years ago.

_"You and Matty need to have a serious talk,"_ Mind Pete had said. The thought filled Eliot with both hope and dread. He wasn't sure which was worse.

"Hug it out," Hardison murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "You know you want to!"

Eliot felt an enormous sense of déjà vu as he watched Matty's turn a brilliant shade of red. Eliot, at least, could control his reactions a little better now.

He did, however, join Matty in sputtering incoherently.

"Ooh! They did last night!" Maria pulled out her phone, looking as excited as Parker talking about the steam vent. "It wasn't too long after you left, but I got pictures!"

The entire circle, except for Eliot and Matty, gathered around Maria's phone to witness their shame. Eliot saw Parker readjust her messenger bag. It was digging into her shoulder far more than it should have. It looked like she had packed something incredibly heavy. Far too heavy for a shoulder bag. Something like —

"Parker," Eliot said so only she could hear. "What happened to your luggage?"

Parker either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him.

"I had to threaten them with public humiliation to get it to happen," Maria was saying.

"Parker," Eliot repeated.

Parker, without looking up from Maria's phone, responded under her breath. "It's right here."

"I mean your other luggage," said Eliot. "The one with your _souvenirs_."

Parker turned her head sharply at the last word, but she did her best to look innocent.

"The only souvenir I wanted was Sparky, and you wouldn't let me keep her." Her pout was almost convincing.

Nate's eyes narrowed as his attention was drawn from the infamous photo, and Matty, who had never been interested in the damned thing, was now listening intently to their exchange.

Eliot felt a growing dread at Parker's less-than-deft dodge. It wasn't what was in her bag that scared him; it was how she'd gotten it.

Maria was still talking about the picture. "It was one of most awkward and hilarious things I've ever seen in my life."

"I need a copy of that pronto," said Hardison, typing feverishly on his phone.

"What happened to the trunk, Parker?" Eliot asked, a little more harshly than he intended.

That got Hardison's attention, and Maria and Sophie were only a moment behind.

Parker blinked in what Eliot figured was supposed to be confusion. He didn't know why she was being so coy. She'd decorated a Christmas tree with millions of dollars of stolen loot, for god's sake.

But he couldn't keep his voice steady. "Please tell me you were joking about Moreau's gold bars."

Parker didn't miss a beat. "I was joking about Moreau's gold bars."

"Of course she's joking," said Matty. "Moreau doesn't have any gold bars."

"Not anymore," Parker muttered.

Hardison hung his head with a sigh. Eliot's fists clenched involuntarily.

"No, I mean he never did," said Matty. "That was just a rumor. We raided his mansion this morning, and while there was an awful lot of crap there, gold bars were not among it."

"Maybe if you had raided his mansion last night …"

Eliot was done beating around the bush. "Were you in Moreau's mansion last night, Parker?"

"We were pretzeling," Parker said simply.

Hardison smiled at the phrase, but Eliot couldn't help but notice that Parker hadn't technically answered the question.

But now that the secret was out, Parker couldn't keep it in. The dam was broken, and the words gushed from her mouth in such a rush that it was difficult to understand her. "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and man, did it live up to it! There were motion sensors in every room, a Glen-Reeder Executive 6740 in the study, and it was all guarded by a Tanuki security system! I mean, I know Moreau is a horrible person, but he has some solid taste in security. You should have seen it, Eliot!"

"I have." Eliot barely understood his own words, spoken as they were through gritted teeth.

Complete silence. They all gaped at him — even Nate.

Eliot kept his gaze on Parker, because he couldn't stand to look at anyone else. "Moreau never had any taste in security. That's what he paid me for."

Parker eyes widened in alarm.

"No way," said Hardison. "You're wrong. You worked for Moreau like eight or nine years ago, right? The Tanuki system only came out five years ago, so —"

"That's not the point," Eliot snapped. He was finding it harder and harder to breathe. "That was just — that was an upgrade. I was the one who secured the mansion. _I _was the one who insisted on motion sensors and heat sensors and guards at every entrance instructed to use lethal force —"

"There were no guards," Matty interrupted. His voice was firm and authoritative, like he was giving Eliot an order. "Not with Moreau in prison. The motion sensors weren't even engaged."

Matty looked Eliot in the eyes as he spoke. Eliot knew what he was doing, and it worked — his tone had snapped Eliot right out of panic and into Commander Mode, which was much more logical. Parker — and Hardison, too, and boy were they going to have a talk about that — hadn't been in danger. Well, not anymore danger than normal when pulling a heist. Not like Eliot had feared.

Of the people present, Matty was the only one who understood enough about Eliot's terrible past to see what was happening inside his head and successfully stop it.

_"You and Matty are two sides of the same coin — similar paths, different choices."_

Damn, they really did need to have a talk.

"The motion sensors _were_ engaged," Hardison muttered. "Until a twenty-four-year-old genius with a smartphone and a problem with authority turned them off."

Matty shook his head, though whether in disbelief or refusal to believe, Eliot wasn't sure. "Impossible. You couldn't have been there last night. None of my people saw anyone there."

Parker just stood there, arms crossed, but the look she gave Matty made Eliot want to laugh and cry at the same time, because it was a dead-ringer for one of Pete's looks: head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly, face deadpan, eyes that said, _You're kidding, right?_

Had Parker always given looks like that and he'd never noticed — or refused to allow himself to — or was this a new development? Eliot had a feeling it was the former but was surprised to find that, of the warring emotions inside him, it was the happiness that won. Pete would have found have loved the fact that someone was still around to look at him like that.

If Matty recognized the look, he didn't show it. He'd clearly focused instead on its meaning, and appeared to be countering a verbal argument that Parker never posed.

"What — that's not — no, listen to me."

Scratch that — _attempting _to counter the verbal argument that Parker never posed. Eliot met Hardison's eyes, and each man brought a hand to his face to hide his smile. They were both intimately familiar with that disbelieving stutter, but it was hilarious watching it happen to someone else.

"You couldn't have —" Matty closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started again. "The big let's-go-steal-an-election plan only took care of Moreau. In order for it to work, Ribera had to get away." Matty exchanged a glance with Nate. "Or think he got away. But, given his reward for turning against Moreau —"

Another glance at Nate, and two identical smarmy, knowing smirks followed this time. Eliot felt the sudden urge to punch them both.

"I had an idea what his movements might be. A couple of my guys were undercover in Ribera's security forces before this election mess started, so I told them to stay that way, and keep me posted. As I guessed, he went to Moreau's mansion to check out his spoils. By this morning, he was still there, convinced we couldn't touch him. But he forgot that assets of political prisoners are seized by the San Lorenzan government."

Matty's lips curled into a full-blown smile, and Eliot recognized it — it was the look Matty always got when he knew he had the enemy right where he wanted him. "Or maybe he just forgot that when he resigned as president, he gave up his position in the government. Not a bad loophole."

He turned his grin on Nate, who returned it, but once again, Eliot noticed its falseness. There was something wrong — Nate loved gloating.

"Either way," said Matty, "we raided the mansion this morning, and I arrested the bastard for corruption and a host of other crimes."

"_You_ arrested him?" Hardison asked. "Jeez, General, save some of the bad guys for everyone else!"

Maria beamed, obviously proud of her husband. Matty, for his part, whether because he didn't get it or didn't think it was funny, took Hardison's comment at face value.

"If I can arrest them, I'm going to. These chances don't come along too often, so I have to take advantage of them." He smirked again. "I put him in the Tombs, right next to Moreau. Neither were too pleased with that, which made it a really easy choice. But the point is," he said, turning to Parker, "we raided the mansion this morning and found everything _but_ gold bars. That was just a rumor."

But even he didn't seem to believe that anymore.

"And my point," said Parker, "is that your people who were undercover aren't very good."

Matty's jaw tightened. The circle tensed, and even Maria looked a little nervous.

"What do you mean by that, Parker?" asked Sophie, patient with Parker as always, but nonetheless cutting to the chase.

Parker rolled her eyes, as though they were forcing her to explain the obvious. "Since we've been here I've heard people talking about the types of things that Moreau's supposedly got holed up in his mansion, and then I heard Nate talking about it to Ribera, and I knew I had to see it for myself. So last night, after we left the party, Hardison and I went exploring. We broke into the mansion, and it was like finding buried treasure!" Her eyes gleamed, glazing over at the memory. "Statues and paintings and jewelry and diamonds and all types of money …" Her eyes refocused, and she looked pointedly at Matty. "And gold bars. A whole crate full."

She sighed. "That's when Ribera showed up with his thugs. Hardison said we needed to get out of there, that it wasn't safe. But Ribera wasn't arrested yesterday like Moreau, and at the time, it seemed like he was going to get to keep all that stuff, and that wasn't right." Her fists clenched at her sides. "I wanted to take some of it, but Hardison said we didn't have the resources to steal it all then. He said we could talk to you guys and figure something out, but that we had to leave. So we did."

She crossed her arms and looked at the floor. "But I hated it. Ribera's a bad guy. He's not supposed to win. So after Hardison went to bed, I went back." She glanced guiltily at the hacker. "Sorry."

Hardison didn't look happy, which was only a small consolation to Eliot, who was shaking with rage and fear — and shame. What if she'd been caught? What had she seen? The thought of her in Moreau's study, where he'd been given countless orders by Moreau, where he'd made the deal to leave San Lorenzo eight years ago … His stomach lurched at the thought.

"I went back and stole the gold bars," Parker said. "And I did it right under the noses of your 'undercover guys.'" She made air quotes with her fingers. "They didn't even have any clue. But I did it because I didn't want Ribera to get everything, and I didn't know you were going to arrest him today."

"Well, now you do know." Maria's voice was tight, and Eliot knew her well enough to tell when she was barely concealing her anger. "That gold belongs to the government of San Lorenzo. You have to give it back."

"We can't." Parker shrugged.

"You can and you will." Maria sounded like she was in Mom Mode, scolding her child for doing something wrong. "You can't just steal things —"

"They stole an election and you were okay with that," said Matty.

"That gold belongs to the government!"

"It's blood money, Maria!" Matty nearly shouted. "If it's used for anything, it should be to help the people that Moreau hurt in order to get it, not to fill the government's coffers."

Maria crossed her arms; it seemed like she was turning Mom Mode on Matty now. "What exactly do you think I've been doing all day?"

Matty looked at her warily. "Nothing. Because you're supposed to be resting."

"And I was," Maria said with a roll of her eyes. "I was in bed, resting. And working on my laptop."

Matty pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maria, that is _not_ what —"

"I was working on a plan for how to rebuild and start to fix some of the damage." The familiar fire burned bright in Maria's eyes. "I'm Minister of the Interior, and it's my job to minister to the interior. I asked them to send me a rough estimate of how much Moreau's assets are worth, and I'm creating a list of what needs to be done and how much money we'll need. To help the people." Her voice broke. "That's all I've ever wanted to do."

While Maria was talking, Matty's eyes softened little by little, and by the end, he was looking at his wife with a love and admiration so great it made the emptiness in Eliot's chest ache again. He opened his mouth speak, but nothing came out.

"I wish everything was as black and white as you want it to be, Matty, but it's not. I'm trying to do what's right with what we have." Maria turned to Parker. "That's why we need all of it. Please, can we have it back?"

"We don't have it anymore." Parker stared at the floor. "We gave it away."

Maria's eyes flashed dangerously. "You _what?_"

Parker looked up and met Maria's fiery gaze. She straightened and said, almost proudly, "We donated it to Our Lady of Good Counsel Orphanage. I thought Ribera was going to get away with all that money, and that was wrong. So I took it. This morning, Hardison helped me give it to someone who needed it. We can't give it back because it doesn't belong to us anymore."

Eliot smiled in spite of himself — Parker had come a long way from that lost, lonely young woman he'd met three years ago. Stealing just to keep the bad guys from winning, and then giving the loot away? Sophie was smiling, too, and even Nate looked pleased. Hardison grinned, nudging Parker gently with his elbow.

Maria blinked in bewilderment. After several moments, she turned to Matty. "Did you tell them?"

Matty shook his head. "They must have done their research."

Hardison and Parker exchanged a glance.

"Um, let's assume we didn't," said Hardison.

"We passed it earlier in the week when we were pretzeling," explained Parker. "It didn't look that great, so Hardison pulled up their financials and found out that they could really use some money." She frowned at Hardison. "Did you miss something?"

Hardison threw up his hands in defense. "I was a little bit busy with all the election stuff I had to do. I didn't have time to look into it any more than that."

"What's so special about that orphanage, Maria?" asked Sophie.

"It's where my father grew up," said Maria.

"And my mother," Matty added.

Eliot nearly took a step backward from the force of that revelation. He'd known Juan for years, considered him a second father, even, but he'd never known that Juan was an orphan. And he'd only rarely heard Matty talk about his mother, and certainly never anything about her childhood.

As if in answer to Eliot's thoughts, Matty said, "My father and Juan were best friends from the day they met at school, and my mother knew Juan because they were at the orphanage together. That's how they met. That orphanage is —" He looked away, swallowing before finishing thickly, "It's a very important part of our family's history." He returned his gaze to Parker and Hardison. "Did you really not know that? You just … saw an orphanage and wanted to help?"

Hardison shrugged awkwardly, but his faced shifted immediately to concern when he saw Parker, who had closed in on herself. He moved to put his arm around her, but she jerked away. He frowned, slightly hurt, but kept his distance.

Eliot's fists clenched reflexively, like they always did when he saw Parker so vulnerable. She stared at the floor, arms wrapped tightly around her torso, and asked in a voice so small it no longer sounded like Parker, "Juan — the General — is an orphan?"

"Yeah," said Matty.

"And your mom?" Parker couldn't have seen Matty nod, since she was focused intently her feet, but her breath hitched as if she had. "And —"

"Me," Matty finished, the word barely above a whisper. He didn't seem upset or angry, but merely stated it like the fact it was, as if he'd come to terms with it long ago and no longer felt any emotions surrounding the situation. He clearly understood its effect on Parker, however, because his gaze never left her for a moment.

With a sniff, Parker hugged herself even more tightly, blinking back tears. "So many orphans."

The team knew that when Parker was like this, she didn't like to be touched, so they always gave her space, no matter how much Eliot wanted to wrap her in his arms and tell her that everything was okay now, that no one would ever hurt her again. But Matty had only known Parker for a few days; he hadn't had time to learn what Parker needed under these circumstances. So when Eliot saw Matty move, he nearly threw out an arm to stop him.

Matty, however, clearly understood more than Eliot had given him credit for, because he only crossed his arms and took the tiniest step in Parker's direction. If Parker noticed it, she didn't show it. Matty ducked his head in an attempt to meet her downcast eyes, and she, almost imperceptibly, raised her head to look at him.

"You're right," Matty said. "Too many orphans." His voice was gentle and kind, but not condescending. Eliot got the impression, as he had the day before, that this was Matty's Dad Voice. "My country has a dark, violent past. We're so small the world forgets about us, so we've been suffering for years, alone and in pain." He took another small step toward Parker, and she raised her head another inch — not out of fear or wariness, Eliot realized, but in order to see him better. "But we have help now. The world knows who we are, and they want to make things better. We're not alone anymore." Matty glanced around at the team. Parker did, too, straightening up and dropping her arms to her side. A small smile graced her lips. It was obvious they weren't just talking about San Lorenzo anymore.

"The worst is behind us," Matty continued, with larger step forward this time. "Now we can start to heal." He leaned in close and dropped his voice, like he was telling a secret. Parker didn't budge. "You guys did that. You and your team helped us. Because of that, there won't be so many orphans now. And the ones that are here are going to have better lives because of what you did. _You_, Parker." Matty smiled, and it was the animated smile Eliot had seen when he'd spoken to his son the day before. "Thank you."

Parker was silent for a moment, returning Matty's smile. Then she frowned and shoved her shoulder bag at Matty. She spoke quickly, her words piling on top of each other. "I really like shiny things and there were hundreds of gold bars, so I kept two and Hardison made me papers for them so I can go through customs, but you should have them. For the orphanage." She darted a quick glance at Maria. "Or to help make the country better."

Eliot couldn't believe his ears. Parker offering to give away _everything_ she'd stolen?

Clearly he wasn't the only one who'd been affected by their trip to San Lorenzo.

Matty didn't make a move for the bag. He just cocked an eyebrow. "I told you, we raided Moreau's mansion this morning. We didn't find any gold bars. That's just a rumor."

His eyes twinkled, and in that moment, Eliot saw a glimpse of Juan. Juan might not have been Matty's biological father, but there was no doubt that Matty was Juan's son. To Eliot's amazement, the thought prompted not bitter jealousy, but a sense of pride. In a weird, roundabout way, his departure and absence had helped to solidify Matty and Juan's relationship. Perhaps he'd been meant to leave, so Matty and Juan could heal, and he could find the team.

Eliot was jolted from his thoughts when Parker startled everyone by throwing her arms around Matty in a hug. After taking a second to recover from his initial surprise, Matty returned the gesture. He seemed to understand how special it was.

Parker breathed in deeply through her nose. "Mmm. I love the smell of San Lorenzo."

Matty pulled away quickly with an awkward chuckle.

"Parker," said Eliot and Nate at the same time.

Parker gave an unconvincingly innocent look. "What?"

They both stared at her, but Eliot saw Nate's eyes flick to him, searching intently for something. He kept his own gaze on Parker without waiting to see if Nate found what he was looking for.

Parker finally relented, heaving an impressive full-body sigh. "But they're so shiny!" she whined, dropping eight small, pewter stars into Matty's hand.

Matty's jaw dropped, and he gaped at his shoulders, now devoid of any indication of rank. "What the — ? How — ?"

Parker shrugged. "I'm a thief."

"And on that lovely note," Sophie smoothly cut in, "we should probably be going." She moved to hug Maria. "It was so lovely to meet you, dear."

"You, too." Maria planted a kiss on Sophie's cheek in the traditional San Lorenzan goodbye, which was immediately followed by a squeak as Parker launched herself into Maria's arms the moment Sophie retreated.

Eliot had to smile at Parker's enthusiasm. In the past few minutes, she had hugged both Maria and Matty, people she'd known for barely a week. He felt a sense of calm contentment at seeing these two sets of people he cared so much about — these people he'd risk his life for in an instant — getting along so well. It was like they fit together.

"Send pictures of the babies crawling out," Parker said. "I want to see how it all works!"

Maria laughed as she hugged Hardison. "I wouldn't want to miss out on an educational opportunity. I'll be sure to have Matty down there with a video camera."

Matty broke away from Sophie; their hug was just long enough to be awkward. "No, Matty will _not _be down there with a video camera. I stay strictly above the waist, thank you very much. I don't need nightmares."

"What, Ramirez, you don't want to be elbow-deep in placenta?" Eliot said with a wink.

Matty shot him a glare, but Eliot just grinned.

"Oh no, it's not that," Maria teased. "He's just worried the camera will catch him crying like he did when Berto was born. And there are two babies this time, so there'll be twice the tears."

Matty flushed a deep red. "What? I did not."

Hardison placed a hand on Matty's shoulder. "Crying when your kids are born is normal, man. Expected even. I'm sure you're a great dad. And a great husband, and general, and all-around perfect guy. Am I right, Eliot?"

Eliot knew Hardison was trying to get a rise out of him, so he tried to let the comment roll off his back. It was then that he realized Matty hadn't hemmed and hawed, or blushed, or shown any of his usual embarrassment at being complimented.

Instead, he'd tensed, shot the tiniest of glances at Maria, and then looked away again, scowling at a spot on the floor. If Eliot hadn't known better — and maybe he didn't — he'd have thought Matty looked _guilty_. Maria didn't meet his glance, folded and unfolded her arms, and then gave a forced smile.

The entire exchange happened so quickly Eliot would have missed it if he didn't know them so well. Eliot had no clue what the hell that was about, but he decided then and there that he was going to find out. They were supposed to be okay now.

Hardison, oblivious, held out his hand to Matty when he stopped scowling at the floor, and they performed their odd handshake. In spite of himself, Eliot felt a surge of something that wasn't quite jealousy. He'd thought that type of handshake was unique to him and Hardison, a symbol of their friendship, and here Hardison was sharing it with someone he just met. A person who happened to be, as Hardison himself had just said, all-around perfect guy Matty Ramirez. No, it wasn't jealousy he was feeling. It was hurt. Apparently Eliot wasn't good enough for Hardison anymore.

He tried to shake the feeling. That was stupid. Hardison was outgoing and made friends easily.

So why did it bother him? He was planning to leave anyway, so what did he care?

Eliot gritted his teeth. Damn his subconscious, manifesting itself until it forced its way into his conscious thoughts. As it turned out, he didn't need Pete's voice in his head — he was doing just fine on his own.

When Maria opened her arms to hug Nate, the mastermind awkwardly dodged it, instead holding out his hand for a shake. Maria, graceful as always, took the slight in stride.

"It was nice to meet you," she said, her tone formal. "Thank you for everything."

Nate gave one of his signature short nods in response, and his eyes came to a rest on Matty.

The two men stared at each other in silence for a few eternal seconds. Then they both spoke at the same time.

"Thank you, Nate."

"I'm sorry, Matty."

Matty blinked. "What?"

Nate held Matty's gaze. "I'm sorry we stole your country."

.

.

.

A stunned silence settled on the circle. Eliot couldn't believe his ears. Nate Ford, apologizing?

"But we saved San Lorenzo and stopped Moreau," said Parker.

"Yes, but we also subverted democracy." Nate looked around the circle, frustrated. "Doesn't anybody other than Matty have a problem with that? I sure as hell do."

Matty resembled a kid who had just been told Santa Claus wasn't real. "But you said — you told me that —"

"I said what I needed to say to get you to do what I needed you to do," said Nate. "But you were right."

Matty's jaw tightened. "Then why didn't you do something different?"

"I had plenty of plans to turn Ribera against Moreau that didn't have anything to do with the election. But they would have taken more time, and that was the one thing we didn't have." Nate rubbed his forehead roughly. "Earlier this year we took down Larry Duberman. I don't usually think about what happens after we finish a job, and because I failed to consider the consequences, we watched Juan, a man who has sacrificed nearly everything for his country, get beaten and arrested by Moreau's thugs. Because of us. Moreau said he'd be in prison until the election, but he made it perfectly clear that he wouldn't live long past it. And the election was in a week. I'm good, but ..." He shook his head in frustration. "There was no way I could put my plans into motion in that short a time. The only way to do it was to _use_ the election."

Everyone was agape. Eliot was so angry he was shaking. Nate Ford, self-proclaimed thief, had just taken down one of the world's most dangerous and untouchable criminals. He'd refused to pull the plug, had insisted on finishing the job in spite of the risk to the team, and now he was having second thoughts?

The only thing that kept Eliot from hauling off and decking Nate, or grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him senseless, was seeing how agitated Nate was. He'd started to pace in front of Matty — only a few steps back and forth, but that just made him seem more anxious than if he'd been pacing across a room. He was also talking too fast; Nate usually spoke slowly and deliberately, giving every word time to sink in for maximum dramatic effect. Now he was almost babbling.

"I can't tell you how many hoops we had to jump through to get here under the radar," Nate continued. "And within a couple of hours, Moreau had blown Plans A through Z to smithereens when he figured out we were in the country." He threw a small but significant glare in Sophie's direction. "Eliot and I had quite a heated argument about how to move forward." Matty looked at Eliot, eyebrows raised. Nate's eyes flickered to Eliot for a millisecond before he spun on his heel to pace away. "He wanted to pull the plug, and he was right. His job is to protect the team, and that was the safest and smartest thing to do. But Juan was in prison, we'd put his family in danger, and by that point we'd pulled in Vittori. I couldn't just —"

Nate stopped and ran his hands through his hair, and only then did Eliot notice how terrible he looked: he hadn't showered, he was clearly hungover, and the enormous bags under his eyes signified that he hadn't had a good night's sleep in … well, probably since all this Moreau crap started. He looked about as awful as Eliot felt. Eliot couldn't even muster up anger anymore, because now everything was falling into place — the fake smiles, the lack of the usual gloating, even, to a certain extent, his refusal to meet Eliot's eyes. Maybe it wasn't all because of the warehouse; maybe part of it was because Nate was feeling guilty about stealing a country.

Nate took a few deep breaths and resumed pacing. "We couldn't just leave, but Eliot was right. It was dangerous, and he only agreed to let us continue if I let him get some backup."

That wasn't entirely true, but Eliot didn't interrupt. Nate was on a roll, and Eliot wanted to know how this all came down to Nate _apologizing_ to Matty.

"That's when he brought you guys in, and damn if it wasn't the best thing he could have done. Juan and Maria weren't exactly pleased with the idea of stealing the country, but they accepted it as a necessary evil. But you —" Nate's brow furrowed deeply, as though Matty was a puzzle that had him completely baffled. "You're one of the most uncompromisingly honest people I've ever met, and this tiny, long-suffering country is the last place I expected to find someone like you. With everything you've been through, I have no idea how in the hell you're not a cynical bastard like I am, but you're good and fair and _honest_. And I, cynical bastard that I am, had to con you. And it worked."

Nate's laugh was mirthless, and bitter, and borderline hysterical. He sounded like he was losing it, which was more than a little disconcerting. "We won." He threw up his hands helplessly. "The entire world thinks this is San Lorenzo's first free election, but it's all a goddamn lie! All we did was steal this country from the people, just like Moreau's always done. But I did it better, because I did the one thing he could never do — I got Matty Ramirez to help me." He shook his head. "You shouldn't be thanking me. I took one of the most honest men I've ever met, the best hope this country has for the future —" Nate threw his arms out in front of him, indicating Matty. "— and conned him."

He finally stopped pacing and looked Matty in the eyes, brow furrowed, face anguished. "I'm sorry, Matty."

No one spoke for a long moment. Nate had never gone off like this before, and he certainly never apologized to a client. Then again, Matty wasn't exactly their usual client, and this job wasn't like at all like their usual jobs.

The silence was broken by a chuckle.

Matty Ramirez was shaking his head and _laughing_ in the face of Nate's confession.

Whatever response Nate had expected, it wasn't that. Eliot had never before seen the mastermind speechless, and he dearly hoped Hardison was somehow recording this for posterity.

"That was a nice little homily, Nate."

Matty stopped to chuckle again, and Nate stared.

"Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the apology, and I'm honored that you feel guilty about it on my behalf. But you didn't con me."

Nate seemed to have gathered his thoughts again because he inhaled to argue, but Matty held up a hand.

"You didn't con me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn't like it, but I made a choice because, like you said, there wasn't another one. It was steal the election out from under Moreau, or get our asses kicked. Again. And as someone so eloquently reminded me the other night —" He glanced at Maria. "I am sick and tired of fucking losing. I had my doubts, for sure, but you and your team came through beyond what I could ever have imagined. It _was _the first free election in San Lorenzo — or the closest to it we've ever been. We had a real opposition candidate, and the polls — which I know were _not _manipulated, because a certain twenty-four-year-old genius with a smartphone and a problem with authority was far too busy to do that on top of everything else —" He winked at Hardison, who beamed and pointed back in acknowledgement. "The polls said the results were too close to call right up until the end. You wrapped Moreau up in a nice little bow and left him on my doorstep, you served us Ribera on a silver platter, and you left us all the pieces we need to start to build something great. And as if that wasn't enough, when the job was done you decided, out of the goodness of your hearts, to help a struggling orphanage get back on its feet."

Matty smiled at Parker and let his gaze drift around the circle, resting on each member of the team in turn, before finally settling it on Nate. He paused for a moment, and then said softly, "You saved my family and my country. You have nothing to apologize for."

Then, just as the moment threatened to become too serious, he smirked. "And while I appreciate that you're very good at what you do, I promise you didn't do any permanent damage to my honesty. Wouldn't you agree, El?"

Eliot laughed at the absurdity of the idea. "I don't think there's anything that could ever keep you from being a sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch, if that's what you're asking."

Matty turned back to Nate, nodding his head in Eliot's direction. "See? And you can trust him, because he hates that about me."

That wasn't true — well, it wasn't entirely true. That, more than anything that had come before, convinced Eliot that the two of them needed to have a long, serious conversation, but now wasn't the time.

Nate frowned at the joke and opened his mouth yet again to argue. But before he could say anything, Matty pulled back the collar of his own shirt, revealing a scar just above his left collarbone. Eliot could tell from its large and irregular shape that it had been nasty, even for a bullet wound. He felt another pang of guilt that he'd only found out about the injury earlier in the week.

"I got this three years ago," Matty said, "by jumping in front of a bullet meant for the bastard I arrested this morning. Trust me — that type of idiotic righteousness can't be killed by a single conversation with anyone, even if he is the great Nate Ford."

The last words took on an almost mocking tone, and Matty's eyes twinkled. He released his collar, covering up the scar once more, but Nate's unreadable gaze remained fixed on the spot.

"I'm a military man, Nate. I understand that sometimes you have to make sacrifices in order to accomplish a goal. In fact, if I've learned anything in my life, it's that the noblest goals require the toughest sacrifices. This was a tough sacrifice, but I've faced tougher." His eyes flicked to Eliot. "And I can't think of a goal more noble than this. Tactically, stealing the election was the best move. And I don't have any regrets about it."

Nate blinked, finally tearing his gaze from the place Matty's scar had disappeared and raised an eyebrow. "Tactics and sacrifices?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Tell me, General — do you play chess?"

Matty's eyes glittered with something Eliot hadn't seen there in years, and an unexpected memory floated to the top of Eliot's mind, different from all the previous ones.

.

.

.

Eliot stared at the chess board. He was losing, badly. Ten white pieces lined the left side of the board: his casualties, glaring resentfully across at the few black pieces he'd been able to capture. His only remaining pieces were three pawns, a rook, and a bishop.

And Matty Ramirez sat across from him, smirking, arms crossed in that annoying, smug way he had.

Eliot's concentration was not aided by Pete's impatient sighs and Maria's muttering.

"Hurry it up, El," said Pete.

"I'm thinking," Eliot said.

"Why don't you just move your penis-shaped guy?"

Maria snorted. Eliot just rolled his eyes.

"It's a bishop, Pete, and you know it," said Matty, cringing. "And I'm not even going to start about how sacrilegious that is."

"You know what's sacrilegious?" asked Pete. "Making a piece that looks like a penis and calling it a bishop. That's anti-Catholic!" He pounded his fist on an open palm in mock outrage.

"No, it's accurate," said Maria. "You've seen their hats. Plus, bishops only move in a straight line, right?" She wagged her finger and said in a stern tone, "Toe the line! Jesus said so!"

Matty looked aghast. "Both of you go stand over in that corner so I don't get hit when you get struck by lightning."

"All of you shut up!" snapped Eliot. He needed to think.

"El, hurry up and lose," said Pete. "I want to go drinking."

"You can wait," Eliot growled.

"We've been waiting. For over an hour." Pete sighed dramatically, this time throwing his whole body into it. He was such a teenage girl sometimes. "Just because you and Matty have decided that chess is your new way of measuring your … bishops —"

"Pete!" Eliot and Matty groaned.

Maria laughed. "Oh yeah. Definitely bishop-measuring." She and Pete shared a smirk.

"Seriously, El," said Pete. "I told you not to start with the Queen's Gambit. That's amateur. You've been in check for the past six moves. You have five pieces left. He'll have you checkmated in three more moves unless —"

Eliot finally made a decision and moved his bishop. "Ha. Check."

"— you do that." Pete sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Matty moved his queen. "Checkmate." His eyes gleamed with pride and victory, and his smile was infuriating. "Want to go again?"

.

.

.

The memory baffled Eliot. It was the first time in a very long time — eight years, really — that a memory of San Lorenzo was completely happy, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps because it could be repeated in the present? Even the twinge he felt at the memory of Pete teaching him how to play chess wasn't enough to keep him from grinning, in spite of the gesture's obvious opposition to the general sentiment of the circle — the groans of the team and Maria were less than enthusiastic about the topic of chess.

Nate didn't take his eyes off Matty. "How good is he, Eliot?"

Matty snorted. "Eliot's never beaten me."

"Eliot's not that hard to beat," said Nate.

Even the unnecessary jabs couldn't dampen Eliot's mood. He shrugged. "I beat you once, Ramirez."

Matty rounded on him. "That was a draw!"

Eliot almost laughed at the ferocity of the reaction. Matty crossed his arms and calmly returned his gaze to Nate. "So technically, you've still never beaten me."

Nate's mouth formed his first genuine smile of the day. "Come visit us in Boston, and we'll play."

"Boston?" Matty's face lit up, and Eliot knew why. "If we do ever visit, it'll be Fenway first, then chess."

The elder General Ramirez had loved baseball — specifically the Boston Red Sox, for some arcane reason Eliot couldn't remember — and he'd passed that passion down to his son. Matty had never seen a live game before.

Maria put her face in her hands. "Chess _and_ baseball? They'll be impossible."

Eliot chuckled. "You have no idea. And they'll use it as an excuse to be melodramatic and measure their …" He smirked. "Bishops."

Maria laughed, and then looked sharply at Eliot, as if only then realizing the importance of him making that specific joke. Matty looked shocked, but his smile, though slow to come, was genuine. Nate cocked an eyebrow, and Sophie clucked disapprovingly.

"I don't get it," whispered Parker.

"I'll tell you later," said Hardison.

An announcement sounded over the loudspeaker.

"That's my flight," said Hardison. "Yours too, Soph."

Everyone fell silent. No one wanted to leave.

"Thank you all," said Maria. "For everything."

Matty held out his hand to Nate. "Yes. Thank you."

"I just wish I could have done better by you," said Nate, taking Matty's hand.

"My children are going to grow up in a San Lorenzo that's safe and free," said Matty. "And a whole generation of kids won't have to grow up without parents because of Damien Moreau. So honestly, Nate — I don't think you could have done it better." He gave Nate a short, quick nod, which the mastermind returned. "And I think —" His smile faded, and he took a deep breath before speaking again. "I think that Sam would be proud of what you've done for us."

Nate stiffened. The color drained from his face. He took a step back, as though Matty had punched him.

"I — right — well — nice to meet you." Without looking at the team, he muttered, "See you in two weeks," and spun on his heel, putting as much space between himself and the circle as possible.

Matty swore in Spanish, running a hand through his hair. He looked helplessly at Eliot. "I didn't mean to —"

"It's all right," Sophie said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but that actually means a lot to him." She looked over her shoulder in the direction Nate had scampered. "I'll go talk to him."

But she didn't move.

Why was she hesitating?

"His flight doesn't leave for another hour, but you need to go, Soph," said Hardison. "Your plane's boarding. So's mine." He looked after Nate, concerned, but shrugged feebly. "I gotta go. See y'all in two weeks."

He left toward his gate. Parker gave Nate a last parting glance, then hitched up her bag — laden with the gold bars and the forged papers to get them through customs — gave a quick wave, and followed the hacker.

"Hey, Hardison, since Eliot's not going to Rio, can you change my ticket?"

Sophie still stared after Nate, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

"You go catch your flight," Eliot said to her. "I'll talk to him."

He could have sworn he saw Sophie's eyes flash in relief — what the hell was going on with her? — but she covered the momentary lapse a millisecond later with a frown. "Did you get a chance to speak with him in private last night? Or today?"

Eliot didn't answer, which was answer enough.

Sophie bit her lip. "I'm not sure it would be a good idea for you to talk to him now. Not with him like this and you …"

She drifted off, not meeting his eyes.

"You're still thinking about leaving?" Maria finished Sophie's thought, but in a much more accusing tone. "Eliot, you can't —"

"Maria." Matty's voice was firm. "It's his decision."

Eliot tried to read Matty's eyes, but the man's mask was back up. Whether that was because of his guilt about what he'd said to Nate or his feelings — whatever they were — about Eliot leaving the team, Eliot didn't know.

What he did know was that he was finally going to have to have that talk with Nate.

"Soph, go catch your flight. I'll talk to him."

"Are you sure?"

No, he wasn't sure at all. A sick, heavy dread was forming in the pit of his stomach.

He forced a smile. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Sophie wasn't convinced, as he knew she wouldn't be, but she accepted his offer, more than eager to avoid a conversation of her own with Nate.

She gave him a hug. "Good luck," she whispered in his ear. "And remember what we talked about."

Her words from the previous night came back to him: _"You should look him in the eyes. I think you'll be surprised by what you find there."_

She kissed him on the cheek, flashed her grifter smile, and waved to Maria and Matty. "It was lovely meeting you. Good luck with everything, darlings."

She blew them a kiss — not a corny gesture, coming from her, but classy as always. A graceful touch of her lips to her fingers, followed by a small, queenly wave. Then, with one last glance in Nate's direction, she turned and faded into the crowd.

Eliot stood awkwardly, trying to figure out a way around what he had to do next.

Nope.

He cleared his throat. "I'll see you two later, then," he said, starting after Nate.

"El."

He turned back. Matty's mask was blank as ever. He was silent for a long moment, as if debating internally, before finally speaking.

"Pete gave you a second shot. Don't blow it."

Eliot's breath caught. In eight years, he and Matty had never spoken so bluntly about Pete's death or its cause. But once again, in only a few words, Matty had managed to encapsulate everything that had been weighing on Eliot's mind.

He couldn't think of a way to respond. So he didn't. He whirled around and headed in the direction Nate had gone.

"Dinner's at six," Maria called after him cheerily. "Don't be late!"

In that moment, Eliot wasn't sure who he feared more — the formidable, honest pair who were currently engaging him in an effective, though perhaps unintentional, game of Good Cop Bad Cop, who somehow loved him in spite of an eight-year absence and a past darker than midnight; or the mastermind and head of his current family, who was always conning, plotting, planning, usually to protect that family, but who had seen the deepest midnight two weeks ago and started running, not stopping to look back yet.

Eliot shuddered. They were each, in their own way, damned terrifying.


	27. Chapter 27

_Hello, everyone! I apologize for taking so long to post this chapter, but life has been crazy and this is an important chapter I wanted to get right._

_Because this is the final chapter. I had planned a couple more, but when I finished this one I realized this is the best way to end it. There will be a short(ish) epilogue in (hopefully) a week or two, but this is the end of the story. The epilogue will hopefully answer any lingering questions you might have._

_Thank you all for reading! I can't tell you what a ride it's been, and I appreciate every one of you. Thanks especially to quirkapotamus and Valawenel for all the betaing and encouragement. I hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 27

The San Lorenzo airport was small; there was only one terminal, with ticket counters and a few restaurants. Eliot didn't know where Nate had run off to, but he made a wild guess, walking past the fast food and straight to the closest bar.

Sure enough, his wild guess was correct.

The bar was was small and darkly lit, in stark contrast to the fluorescent lighting of the rest of the airport. The entire left wall was taken up by the bar, behind which were shelves of liquor and, of course, a mirror. What was it with bars and mirrors? There were six or seven tables off to the right, with maybe ten people scattered among them. Only one man sat at the bar.

Nate Ford had positioned himself as far from the entrance as possible, in the seat right next to the far wall — so close, in fact, that he was actually leaning against it, as though he hoped it would give way and swallow him up. Hunched over the bar, he poured himself a drink from an already quarter-empty bottle in front of him.

"You coming or going, _amigo_?" The heavy, balding bartender looked, like nearly everyone else in the country, drunk from sleep deprivation — and, considering his occupation and the dilation of his pupils, probably from something else, too.

"_¡Bienvenida!_" The bartender grinned, speaking a little louder than necessary. "Drinks are on the house today!"

"Well, when you put it that way." Eliot walked to the bar and sat one seat away from Nate. "To celebrate President Vittori's victory, I'm guessing?"

"_Si._" The bartender's smile faded. "And to honor the courageous sacrifice of Rebecca Ibañez."

He made a motion behind him. Only then did Eliot notice a photo of Sophie on the counter, surrounded by flowers and lit candles. He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from smiling. He had to remember that to these people, Rebecca Ibañez was a real woman who had been brutally gunned down by a corrupt and ruthless dictator, not someone Sophie made up in a panic and he himself had pretended to kill in order to manipulate the populace into turning against Ribera. Damn, when he thought about it that way, it sounded terrible. He risked a quick glance at Nate, who downed his drink and poured another. Had that been part of Nate's big guilt trip not ten minutes earlier?

When he was positive he could keep a straight face, Eliot cleared his throat. "I heard President Vittori named a girls' school after her. And something about putting her on one of the new royal notes?"

"_Si_, the twenty-royal note," the bartender said, eyes shining. "She was an inspiration to us all."

Good God. They'd kept Vittori in the dark so his reactions would be realistic, but this was getting ridiculous. Eliot hoped Juan would break down and tell Vittori the truth soon, otherwise San Lorenzo's new president might be calling the pope and asking about canonization next.

The bartender poured a shot of whiskey and slid it across the bar to Eliot. "So, _Señor Americano_, will you toast the memory of our First Lady? Here in San Lorenzo we say —"

"_A Dios, San Lorenzo, y San Lorenzo_," Eliot finished, raising his glass. It was the traditional San Lorenzan toast, meaning _To God, Saint Lawrence_ — the patron saint and namesake of San Lorenzo — _and San Lorenzo_, the country. He'd always found it silly that _San Lorenzo _was repeated, but he had learned quickly not to make any remarks about it, since San Lorenzans — especially drunk San Lorenzans — tended to be defensive about it.

The bartender toasted, eyebrows raised, and drank. "Where did an American cowboy like yourself learn that?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Eliot could just make out Nate hiding a smirk with his own glass of whiskey.

"I spent a few years here about a decade back," he muttered.

"Ah, and this is the first time you've returned to visit?"

"Yes." Eliot kept his answer short and clipped. He hadn't come here to talk to some drunk stranger about his past.

"And you're leaving so soon?"

The bartender seemed genuinely saddened by this, so Eliot, in spite of his growing irritation with the topic of conversation, corrected him.

"Actually, I'm sticking around for a couple of weeks to catch up with old friends. But some of my American friends just left, and I was seeing them off."

The bartender's face brightened. "That is wonderful to hear! Can I get you a drink, or would you rather be off to catch up with your friends?"

Eliot couldn't help but smile. He'd never understood how San Lorenzans could be so friendly and cheerful, considering the hell their country had been through.

"I think I can stick around for one drink. What did you say was on the house?"

"Everything!" For good measure, the bartender spread his arms wide, encompassing the shelves full of liquor behind him. But Eliot caught the unconscious flicker of his eyes toward Nate, who was now halfway through a full bottle of whiskey.

Had the bastard really ordered an entire bottle of mid-tier whiskey when everything was on the house? Eliot would have to make sure to leave some money before he left.

"How about a beer?" he asked. "What have you got on tap?"

"Beer brewed locally here in the capital," the bartender explained cheerfully. "A pale ale and a lager from the San Lorenzo Brewery —"

Eliot tried to hide a smirk. Everything in this country honored Saint Lawrence, or the country, or both, even breweries. In fact, San Lorenzans often toasted _Dios, San Lorenzo, y San Lorenzo_ with a San Lorenzo beer, which never ceased to make Eliot's head spin — and not because of the alcohol.

"— and a porter from the San Pedro Brewery," the bartender finished.

San Pedro. The sound of the words brought memories to the surface, of Pete complaining because they always ordered San Pedro — Saint Peter — to tease him. Of a surprise birthday party for Pete, only a few months before he'd been killed, which had boasted a _¡Feliz cumpleaños, Pete!_ banner and had only served San Pedro beer to drink.

"San Pedro," were the only words Eliot managed.

He watched as the bartender poured it slowly, in order to maintain the beige head, almost the consistency of whipped cream, atop the dark brown beer, and slid it across the bar.

The smell was intoxicating on its own, since it brought with it more than just alcohol. He saw the tears in Pete's eyes as he'd taken in the party, heard the hitch in his voice as he'd said with a smirk, "Really, San Pedro again?"

Eliot held up the beer, nodding to the bartender, and murmured, "_A Dios, San Lorenzo, y San Lorenzo,_" before bringing the dark, viscous liquid to his lips. He tasted the rich, almost burnt flavor of the porter and remembered Pete making him Sarah's spaghetti at midnight in the abandoned dining hall after a particularly tough mission. He felt the coolness of the foam on his upper lip, thinking of drinking beer with Pete as they played chess, or celebrated a successful mission, or toasted Matty and Maria at their engagement party.

He closed his eyes, feeling his heart throb at every beat, but it was a dull pain.

"_Moving on is focusing on the good memories," _Mind Pete had said.

He'd promised he'd do it, and he would. Slowly but surely.

.

.

.

"Why are you here?"

Nate's voice cut through Eliot's thoughts like guillotine.

The bartender had moved on to other customers, apparently understanding Eliot needed to be left alone to reminisce, but not recognizing that he was here for a different reason.

And that reason had no patience for Eliot savoring beer right now.

"Why are you here?" Nate asked again, and Eliot could have sworn he heard the slightest emphasis on the word _you_. He tried not to let it bother him, but the accusation hung heavy in the air. He was the last person Nate wanted to talk to, and that hurt.

Eliot took another swig of the porter, letting memories of Pete's laughter wash over him to give him courage.

"I was the only one who didn't have a flight to catch."

"Figures." Nate downed the contents of his glass with a cynical chuckle, but Eliot heard distinct notes of both relief and hurt, which surprised him so much he forgot to be offended and hurt himself. He got the feeling that Nate's reaction had little to do with him and more to do with Sophie, but those two emotions seemed at odds with each other. Relief, sure — no one hated being nagged by Sophie more than Nate, and especially about the trifecta of his son, his drinking problem, and his guilt. But hurt? Why would Nate be hurt that Sophie had to catch her flight?

Maybe for the same mysterious reason that Sophie had looked relieved when Eliot volunteered to talk to Nate? Something had happened between them, and it wasn't looking good.

"I didn't want to talk to her anyway." Even Nate didn't sound convinced by his words, which slurred almost imperceptibly; he'd already refilled his glass and emptied it halfway again. "Not exactly looking forward to hearing her explain why she had to tell Maria about —"

His voice gave out, and he squeezed his eyes shut before emptying his glass again. Eliot's heart ached for him; he never knew how to interact with Nate when he was like this. But as he stared into his San Pedro porter, something stronger than sympathy washed over him — guilt. Because Sophie wasn't the reason Matty knew about Sam.

Eliot cleared his throat and watched his darkened reflection ripple in the mahogany liquid in his glass. "Actually, that was me. I told Matty."

Nate straightened on his stool, pushing away from the bar and turning to face Eliot, like a dragon awakening from his slumber. He seemed to grow larger, filling the space around him until Eliot felt the need to lean away, even though there was an entire seat between them. When Nate spoke, his tone was darker than the beer Eliot drank.

"You what?"

That tone never failed to send a shiver down Eliot's spine. He'd first heard it when he'd asked Nate, back on that first job against Dubenich, "What's in it for you?" and Nate had responded, "He used my son." The team had heard it only a few times since, and always related in some way to Sam, like when he'd finally taken down Blackpoole. It was a tone that chilled the air and made everyone hearing it want to run in the opposite direction. The pain and grief behind that tone were what made Nate Ford so good at what he did, transforming him from a run-of-the-mill cynical bastard into something downright terrifying.

"You," Scary Nate said, his voice quiet and cold. It wasn't a question, but Nate didn't quite seem to believe it. Of the team, Eliot was the person least likely to blab about others' personal lives. "Why?"

His voice shook on the last word, no longer scary, but wounded. Eliot was reminded of how he'd felt when he'd learned that Nate had told Juan what happened had in the warehouse. But rather than anger or self-righteousness at giving Nate a taste of his own medicine, Eliot just felt like an asshole. It wasn't his place to tell Nate's story.

"I didn't want to."

The words tumbled out, but Eliot didn't need to see Nate tense to know that he sounded as stupid as he felt. What, like he was forced to tell Matty? He rushed to correct himself.

"I mean, I didn't plan it. It just came out. Matty noticed you drinking and he was being a sanctimonious asshole about it. Even when I said you had a bad story, he had the balls to say, 'Join the club. You don't see me drowning myself in booze.'"

Just remembering it made Eliot's blood boil. Matty Ramirez was such a judgmental bastard sometimes. His grip on his glass tightened.

"I never could deal with his holier-than-thou shit, so I snapped and told him. Apparently I also should have told him not to say anything, but I didn't think the dumb-ass would actually bring it up."

He didn't dare look in Nate's direction, but he felt some of the tension dissipate. The air grew less cold, and he heard Nate shift in his seat as the man reached for the bottle to refill his glass. The dragon was settling back into its cave.

"So let me get this straight." Scary Nate was gone now. "Matty said to you what you've been saying to me for years, but instead of piling on, you defended my drinking?"

Yep, Nate was definitely back to normal. His tone was wry, almost mocking, and he wasn't even trying to hide that smirk that always made Eliot want to punch him in the face.

Nate brought his glass to his lips and looked at it for a moment. "I'm not sure if that says more about you, me, or Matty." He raised his glass to Eliot. "But I'll drink to that."

He tossed his drink back in a quick, practiced motion. Then, with a glance at the lovingly adorned photo of Sophie on the counter, added, "To San Lorenzo, et cetera."

Eliot blinked. The rational part of his mind told him Nate was deflecting, focusing on Eliot's inconsistency and celebrating his drinking problem, rather than thinking about his son. That part of Eliot's mind also told him that if Sophie were here, she would push Nate to talk about his feelings whether he wanted to or not.

But the other part of his mind, what he usually called his gut, told him to let it go. Was it healthy, what Nate was doing? Hell no. But Eliot wasn't going to fix what was wrong with Nate in a conversation at a bar in the San Lorenzo airport. And he hadn't come here for that anyway; he'd come to make sure Nate was okay after what Matty had said. Clearly he was, or at least as okay as Nate Ford, self-professed functional alcoholic and honest-man-turned-thief, ever was.

So Eliot rolled his eyes and raised his glass to Sophie's photo, and took another drink of his beer.

"Actually, the toast goes —"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what it is. The bartender gave me an even more detailed explanation than he gave you." Nate shook his head, murmuring, "Even their beers are named after saints. I swear this country's more Catholic than Rome."

"Triggering your guilt complex, is it?" Eliot flashed his most infuriating smirk.

Nate snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

A noise somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup escaped Eliot. His heart started to race and, as he looked into the dark, opaque liquid in his glass, a memory floated to the surface: him trying to be friendly during that first job, and Nate's cool response.

"_Eliot, you and I are not friends."_

No, they weren't. No matter how many drinks they shared or jobs they did together; no matter how much Sophie and Juan tried to tell him that he wasn't being fair to Nate; no matter that Mind Pete, at the grave, had actually suggested that Nate was like Juan, that he'd somehow become a father to Eliot; no matter that Eliot had just decided to let Nate's deflecting go, to take the high road and let him have this moment, he and Nate were not friends. They never had been. And after what Nate had seen him do in that warehouse, they never would be. Those words playing pool back in Chicago were as true today as they were three years ago.

Nate would never see him as anything more than a thief and a killer.

And he could never work for someone who couldn't even look him in the eyes.

A dense tightness coalesced with surprising force in the pit of his stomach, like someone had hit him in the gut with a shot put. He reached into his pocket, fingering the scrap of paper on which he'd hastily written the names of potential replacement hitters during the drive back to the capital.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to quell the sting of tears. These people — his team, his _family_ — were the only people in the world who truly understood him. Juan and the Floreses cared about him, maybe even loved him, but their world was so small. They fought and bled, loved and lost, suffered and died for this little country, and they did it with a nobility and honesty Eliot could never hope to achieve.

But his team — they were like him. They knew the thrill of a heist and appreciated a well-executed con. They recognized a kinship in each other's loneliness, and they understood how rare it was for people like them to have anything remotely close to friends or family.

Just the thought of leaving them behind filled him with a growing, aching emptiness. He loved them all — crazy, reckless Parker, Hardison and his geekiness, Sophie's motherly affection, even Nate's cynical and sometimes harshly rational take on life. He wouldn't be the same without them.

The tightness inside him swelled painfully, pushing against all his insides until he felt he might burst. His heart beat rapidly and erratically, and his vision darkened at the edges. He couldn't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. He downed a few large gulps of beer in the hope that it would calm him; it burned as it went down, but in spite of the alcohol rather than because of it.

He didn't want to leave. He didn't know if he could survive losing these people and being alone again.

"Eliot, I —" Nate's voice sounded strained before giving out completely.

Eliot's fist clenched in his pocket, crumpling the paper. Nate might have declared himself a thief, but there were some lines he would never cross — one of which Eliot had crossed fourteen times in that warehouse. And Nate, who had hypnotized a member of his own team for a con only a few months ago, was the worst of them; the others were just thieves. They'd never done anything worse than con or steal from people. If even Nate couldn't say his name without choking on it, what hope did he have for the rest of them understanding?

None. There wasn't any hope.

"Here." Eliot shoved the piece of paper at Nate, his gaze not leaving his glass.

Nate let out a breath — a sigh of relief, no doubt — and reached out to grab the paper. After a silence that stretched on for centuries, he asked, "What's this?"

"You know what it is."

Another silence, another sigh, both saturated with disappointment. Eliot knew that sound when he heard it. He always disappointed eventually.

"I can guess, but I'd like to know for sure before I go making assumptions."

The son of a bitch was going to make him spell it out. "It's a list of hitters."

He felt Nate's eyes boring into him, but he played with his glass, spinning it in little half-circles with his fingers. Back and forth. The beer sloshed against itself as it changed direction. Clockwise, counterclockwise. He wouldn't look up. He couldn't bear the thought of what he would see if he did. Disappointment. Disgust. Hatred.

"Why would I need one of those?"

Eliot's hands closed tight around the glass, lifting it up half an inch and bringing it down on the bar with a slam; surprisingly, only a few drops of beer spilled onto his hands.

He wiped them roughly on his pants. Why was the fucking bastard torturing him like this?

He wasn't going to play mind games. Not when there were people like the Floreses rejoicing in his return and waiting for him to come home for dinner.

He hissed, "Fuck this," and pushed away from the bar.

"You can't even look me in the eyes and tell me you're leaving?"

But Eliot refused to rise to the bait. He was on his feet and turning to leave when he heard yet another sigh. This one was heavy with something Eliot couldn't pinpoint.

"It's probably better this way. I can't look you in the eyes, either."

A white hot pain seared across Eliot's heart like a cattle brand. Suddenly he was seventeen again, trying to explain why he wanted to join the service, when his father, eyes burning with anger and disappointment, yelled, _"Fine! Just go! I can't even look at you anymore!"_

He whirled around, assuming an attack stance, but it was just a reflex. A physical attack wasn't the way to hurt Nate, and Eliot knew it. As he turned, several verbal jabs sat ready on his tongue, waiting for him to choose the one that would sting most. The perfect retort that would make Nate bleed as much as Eliot was right now.

He was so distracted by his own pain that he forgot to avert his gaze; when he finally completed his revolution, he found himself staring right into the anguished, watery eyes of Nate Ford.

The sheer agony in Nate's eyes nearly knocked Eliot off his feet. Because he'd seen that agony in those eyes before — whenever Nate thought of Sam. The anger roared in Eliot's veins, like it always did when he saw Nate like this, and his mind whirled with images of a scared little boy, dying of cancer in a lonely, sterile hospital room; of Nate and Maggie, broke from trying to save their only son and broken-hearted from failing; of Nate, drinking himself into losing his job, his marriage, the entire life he'd built.

Eliot's fists were clenched so tightly he thought his nails might begin to draw blood, and he became aware that the low growl he heard was emanating from him. The pain in Nate's eyes somehow seemed more intense than it had been moments before, and Eliot wracked his brain to try to find something, anything to make it better.

Nate let out a noise that sounded disturbingly like a sob, and said, "I'm so sorry, Eliot."

.

.

.

Years ago, before he'd joined the team or Juan, before he'd even started working for Moreau, Eliot had been captured by the North Koreans because of that damned sapphire monkey. In order to figure out where it was, they'd dunked him repeatedly in water so cold that his nose broke the layers of ice forming on top. He would never forget the feeling of the frigid liquid burning his face, forcing the air from his lungs, numbing his skin, muscles, and eventually his brain.

That was how he felt right now. The burning pain, the boiling rage were snuffed out by the shock of hearing those words from Nate: _I'm so sorry, Eliot_. He stood rooted to the spot, breath frozen in the middle of an exhale, mouth gaping, the growl stunned right out of him.

It was several seconds before his mind started to function again; it assured him that he'd misheard and tried to think of something clever to say.

The best it could come up with was, "What?"

Nate brought a shaking hand to his forehead and ran it through his hair. "I'm so sorry, Eliot. Please forgive me." His voice gave out at the end.

Not surprisingly, this didn't clear things up. Lightheaded, Eliot fell back onto his stool, afraid his legs might give out. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths.

Bolstered by an influx of fresh oxygen, his brain finally started to catch up to reality, and it replayed Nate's words. Eliot had definitely heard them correctly. But he was almost positive he'd never heard the words _I'm sorry_ come out of Nate's mouth ever, not even as part of a con, much less punctuated by the word _so_, and most certainly never followed by his own name.

"What are you sorry for?" Without meaning to, he placed a slight stress on _you_.

But Nate's entire face seemed to frown at the question. "For what happened in the warehouse."

Eliot winced. It was the first time he and Nate had broached the topic since the flight over here a week ago, when Nate had tried and failed to … comfort him?

_Nate paused, as if gathering his thoughts. He took a deep breath, then, "If you ever need anyone to talk to —"_

"_My first phone call will be to the emotionally stunted drunk with a God complex. Don't you worry," Eliot snarled. _

Then, Nate's reaction had seemed callous. Now, Eliot was starting to see it in a new light.

"I was the one who did it, Nate." He turned on his stool, his own eyes boring into the bar because he couldn't meet Nate's. "_You_ have nothing to be sorry for."

His voice gave out before he finished the word _sorry_, but he mouthed the final word anyway.

"Son of a bitch."

Eliot's head jerked toward Nate, the words stinging him yet again, but he saw the mastermind shaking his head and pouring himself another glass from the rapidly emptying bottle.

"I hate it when Sophie's right." Nate took a swig of whiskey, but Eliot noticed his hand trembling as he set the glass back down on the bar. "She told me to talk to you. Said there was clearly something wrong and that I needed to fix it, and that the longer I didn't the worse things would get. She didn't know about the warehouse, but I was sure that you blamed me for what had happened, so I didn't say anything."

In spite of everything, Eliot almost smirked — almost. "Funny, she said pretty much the same thing to me."

"I was a little busy trying to figure out how to take down Moreau and get everyone out alive," Nate said defensively.

"So was I," Eliot snapped back.

Nate raised his glass to his lips and sighed. "I really, really hate it when she's right."

"Me, too."

Eliot held out his beer across the empty seat between them. Nate did the same. Their glasses clinked, and they both drank.

Eliot's heart pounded, but he felt a weight he'd hadn't known he was carrying be lifted from his shoulders, because Sophie was right.

"_You should look him in the eyes. I think you'll be surprised by what you find there."_

He was. He'd expected to find disappointment and disgust. And all he'd found was guilt.

Forget him and Matty. He and Nate were disturbingly similar.

"You warned me." Nate's voice was sandpaper, and he stared at his glass, magically full once again. "You always warn me, and I never listen. You warned me last year, before I gave myself up, and you did it again with Moreau. Multiple times. You told me I was out of my league, but I didn't believe you. I was confident that my plan would work, that we could get Moreau. But I underestimated him." He took a shaky breath and a giant swig of whiskey. "You always warn me, and you're always right, but whenever I fuck up, you never say 'I told you so.' You're just there — to protect the team, to protect me. And that's what you did in the —" His voice gave out, but he continued in a whisper. "In the warehouse."

Eliot suddenly felt like an enormous idiot. Nate didn't blame him; he blamed himself. Of course. It was what the man did: he masterminded, he felt guilty, and he drank, and they all fed into each other. He drank because he felt guilty because his plans got people hurt because he drank because he felt guilty about his son —

The sudden realization hit Eliot so hard he almost doubled over. Nate felt guilty when he put people in danger. Innocent people or the team. He hated hurting innocents because he was a good man, and he hated hurting the team because, "You've become my family, my only family," he'd said before being arrested a year ago. He'd lost his first family, and he didn't want to lose another one.

That look he'd given Eliot, that pain in his eyes that was always because of Sam, wasn't because of Sam this time. It was because of Eliot.

Nate didn't hate him. Quite the opposite.

Juan and Mind Pete had been correct, the bastards. But this was wrong. Eliot couldn't allow someone to care about him like that. It only put them in more danger, distracting them from what they needed to be doing and keeping him from being able to do his job.

"No." His voice was harsher than he'd expected, and Nate looked up in surprise. "I won't let you — What happened in the warehouse wasn't your fault. I'm a hitter. It's my job to protect the team, and that's what I did."

"But whose job is it to protect you?" Nate's eyes filled with that pain again. "It's mine. It's my job to make plans that keep everyone on the team safe, that account for every contingency. It's my job to make sure that no one ever has to —" He stared at the glass in his hand, empty again. He didn't move to fill it.

Nate blinked rapidly several times. But just when Eliot was about to say something, he spoke again, voice thick.

"I saw it, Eliot. I saw you change. You broke that man's neck and you picked up the gun and you —"

The sound of Nate's voice and the images it conjured started to take Eliot back to the warehouse. Bullets echoed in his mind, and he flinched.

Nate seemed to notice because he closed his eyes for a moment, breathed deeply, and changed tacks. "Sophie said that you weren't that man anymore, and you weren't. Until I forced you to be."

With an enormous effort, Eliot focused on Nate's words and pushed the sounds of the warehouse to the back of his mind. "I wasn't forced to do anything. I made a conscious choice."

"A choice you would never had been forced to make if I hadn't underestimated Moreau," Nate snapped, banging his glass a little too loudly on the bar.

The bartender looked over at them, but didn't approach. Bartenders were generally good at reading people, and this bartender in particular wasn't stupid. He could tell they were in the middle of something, but he did shoot a warning glance — _Keep it down._

Nate's outburst angered Eliot. He should have seen it coming. With Nate, guilt led to martyrdom. It had happened a year ago at the pier, but Eliot wasn't going to let it happen this time. Nate hadn't done anything in the warehouse; Eliot had. Nate could feel guilty all he wanted, but Eliot drew the line at bullshit.

"Cut it out," he snapped. "This was much easier when I thought you hated me."

If he had wanted Nate to feel less guilty, that was exactly the wrong thing to say.

When Eliot had confessed to telling Matty about Sam, Nate had reminded him of a waking dragon, presence expanding, air freezing, voice dropping about ten octaves and growing in strength. Now Nate seemed to do the opposite — he shrunk away from Eliot, leaning as far into the wall as possible without falling off his stool, and his face filled with that Sam pain once again.

"Is that why you're leaving?" Nate's voice was so quiet Eliot could barely hear it. "I figured you blamed me or, just now, that you thought I was avoiding you." He brought a shaking hand to rub his forehead. "You saved my life, Eliot. You've already sacrificed too much of your soul because of Moreau, but you gave up more of it that day to save me. And you thought I hated you?"

The sadness and hurt in Nate's tone tempered Eliot's anger for a moment. It was clear he understood Eliot's pain better than Eliot had given him credit for. But that was a problem in and of itself — Eliot didn't want pity, and he didn't want anyone wallowing in guilt on his behalf. He opened his mouth to speak.

"No, Eliot, you're going to listen to this." Nate, as always, seemed to be able to read his thoughts. "I thought that you were going to die in that warehouse, as that man again. Because of me. Somehow you survived, but after it was all over, you asked me not to tell the team what you'd done, and I knew you weren't the same. I don't hate you. I hate myself for letting it get that far. You risked everything. You were willing to die for me and for the team. You were willing to sacrifice more than your life for us. And in spite of all that, you were willing to sacrifice everything again yesterday. You're always ready to do that. And I've never thanked you."

He looked up and met Eliot's eyes. "Thank you, Eliot."

Eliot was dumbstruck. He turned to his beer and took several gulps, but the lump in his throat still burned. He heard Juan's voice in his head, repeating the same two thoughts over and over, as if on a loop; and although Juan had spoken one of them eight years ago and the other just this morning, they were both as clear as if Juan was speaking them into his ear right now.

"_Pete died saving someone he cared about. There's no more honorable death than that."_

"_All you succeeded in doing was showing Nate that you're an even better man than he thought."_

Because it had been for people he cared about, his team, was what he'd done in the warehouse, in some twisted way, _honorable_, just like Pete's death had been? Had Nate actually taken that as a sign of Eliot's goodness, and not a symbol of the darkness that constantly resided inside him?

Eliot swallowed before clearing his throat. "I did what I had to do. That's all."

"Would you do it again?"

"Absolutely." The answer was out before he could fully process the question.

Nate frowned, suddenly very interested in his glass. His brow furrowed deeply, and it was a long moment before he spoke again.

"Maybe —" Nate's voice was thick. He cleared his throat, but it didn't seem to have any effect. "Maybe it would be better for you if you did leave."

Eliot's blood turned to ice. That was what he'd dreaded hearing from Nate since this started.

"Is that what you want?" His voice was barely a whisper.

Nate looked up sharply. "What I want is for everyone to get out of these jobs alive. And maybe if you left you wouldn't have to worry about protecting us and could just focus on surviving."

Focus on surviving.

Survival was the bare minimum for life; after Eliot left San Lorenzo, he'd focused on surviving because that was all he had. But now he had the team.

"_Death's too easy, but so's life if you never live it."_

He didn't want to survive anymore — he wanted to _live_. Just like Pete had made him promise.

And the first time he'd felt truly alive since leaving San Lorenzo was that first job, when they'd taken down Dubenich. Together. As a team. And he hadn't worried about something as simple as surviving ever since.

They'd all, in their own way, shown him how to live. With her odd combination of menacing darkness and wide-eyed innocence, Parker made him, for the first time in his life, feel like someone who could be a grounding influence, rather than the one who needed grounding; her craziness both drove him nuts and showed him not to take life so seriously.

Hardison, with his geek spirals, was the smartest person he'd ever met, and not a day went by when he didn't learn something, or laugh out loud, or both; but Eliot knew that he did the same for Hardison, providing him with the approval he so desperately craved as they expanded each other's horizons.

Sophie had taught him so much about people — that it was possible for a person to be both devastatingly good and horrendously bad at something, and the only difference between the two was confidence; that caring about someone else wasn't a weakness, but a strength; that the greatest gift a person could give to another is an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on.

And Nate — Nate had reminded him what it was like to do good; he'd built on Juan's foundation and taught Eliot to crave the feeling, to want more from life than revenge or money, to focus on giving back and not just on the next score.

They had all changed him, and for the better.

"_So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"_

He heard Hardison lecturing him in the election HQ back room. _"That's the Eliot Spencer I know. That's my best friend, and I honestly don't give a damn what he used to do."_

He saw Parker take a deep breath and, eyes filled with tears, ask, _"You're not going to leave us, are you?"_

"_You're one of my dearest friends," _he remembered Sophie saying. _"And I'm begging you. Please don't run from us."_

"_I won't let you leave another family behind," _Maria had said the other day._ "You need them."_

"_Not only do they know you, and quite well, but they are clearly willing to go to great lengths to protect you," _Juan had said just today._ "They know the best parts of you."_

Matty, right here in the airport, had looked him in the eyes and said, _"Pete gave you a second shot. Don't blow it."_

And just now, Nate. _"I'm so sorry, Eliot. Please forgive me. I don't hate you._ _You were willing to sacrifice more than your life for us. You're always ready to do that. Thank you."_

"_So what's it going to be, El?" _Mind Pete asked, back again for one last hurrah._ "Surviving? Or living?" _

Eliot's lips curved into a slow smile. "Survival is overrated."

"What?" Nate's voice was incredulous, tinted with just a hint of concern.

Eliot took a swig of his beer and turned to the mastermind with a grin. Nate gaped at him, and Eliot could practically hear the gears turning in the man's head.

"Trust me, Nate. Staying will be the death of me, but it won't be the bad guys that get me. It'll be you crazy people."

He laughed — laughed— and it was a happy one, light as a feather because it was no longer weighed down by the immensity of a dreaded choice. That was the moment he knew he'd made the right decision.

Nate got an odd look in his eyes. Eliot couldn't identify it, but the mastermind looked relieved and, like Eliot, just a little bit lighter. Nate reached for his glass, but it was empty. He paused a moment, looking between it and now three-quarters-empty bottle, apparently weighing his options. Then he sighed and poured himself another glass before speaking, this time to the whiskey.

"I'm serious about you risking your life, Eliot."

"So am I. If something did happen to me while protecting you all, it would be much more than I deserve."

Nate was very interested in his glass again. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Yes, I do. You have no idea the things that I've done." Eliot turned to his beer and brought it to his lips, looking at the reflection of the Rottweiler in the mirror. "Death is too easy for someone like me."

"Why didn't you tell me you worked for Moreau?" The accusatory words exploded from Nate in a burst, like he could no longer hold them in.

Eliot closed his eyes for a moment. "I didn't know how. I didn't want you to —"

"Hate you?" Nate finished quietly. He sighed. "You really don't have much faith in me, do you?"

Eliot opened his eyes and stared. "You almost became a Catholic priest. Sure, you're a thief, but you have a specific set of ethics. If stealing a country is bad, I'm pretty sure killing is on the no-no list."

Nate seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he put his glass down and spoke in the tone he always used when he knew something the rest of the team didn't. "Eliot, the Catholic Church has seven sacraments — Baptism, Confession, Eucharist, Confirmation … and there it is."

"There what is?" Eliot blinked.

Nate chuckled. "Non-Catholics can never get more than halfway through the list of sacraments without their eyes glazing over."

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Well, add that to my incredibly long list of sins then."

"Confession," Nate continued, as though he hadn't been interrupted, "is one of the big ones. Catholics believe that the act of confession to a priest, and then doing penance, will absolve you of sin."

"Yeah, Baptists don't believe that."

Nate raised his eyebrows. "Baptist?"

"South." Eliot shrugged.

Nate chuckled again. "Well you're all Protestants, so it doesn't really matter. The point is, the priest represents God, but also another human being. The act of confessing your sins to another person feels like shit, but it's humbling. Because everyone sins. And confessing them is a relief of sorts. A sharing of the burden. And when you finish, the priest says, 'I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.'"

As he spoke the last words, Nate made a cross in the air with his hand.

Eliot cocked an eyebrow, and he could have sworn he saw Nate's cheeks redden slightly.

"Habit," Nate murmured, taking another swig of whiskey.

"What's your point?" Eliot's tone was a little harsh, but he didn't feel like having Nate literally preaching at him. "You want me to go to confession?"

Nate didn't look at Eliot. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "I haven't been to confession since Sam. Hell, I haven't set foot in a church since that job with Paul. But as my mother used to say, 'Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.'"

He frowned slightly, then suddenly cleared his throat and looked at Eliot in the mirror. "Anyway, I still believe in the idea of absolution. If someone is truly sorry for the sins they've committed, and they undergo some sort of penance, then God forgives them. I don't think you need to confess them aloud, but if you're sorry, and you want forgiveness, you will be forgiven."

Eliot scoffed. "Maybe for the little sins, like stealing, or —"

"Nope. All of them. That's what the Church says. If you're sorry, and you do penance, God will forgive you."

They both sat in silence for a moment. "So you, Nate Ford, believe in forgiveness?"

Nate shook his head. "I believe God believes in forgiveness." He smirked. "I'm not God."

Eliot made a big show of looking for his phone. "Dammit, I should've paid more attention when Hardison told me how to record things. Can you say that again?"

Nate snorted, but they fell into silence again. Eliot looked into the mirror behind the bar, and the Rottweiler's dead eyes stared back.

"You wouldn't believe that if you knew the things I'd done." His voice was soft, but it still shook as he spoke. "You actually thought I was going to die in that warehouse? I'm the best. I'm the best now, and I was the best when I worked for Moreau. You know what they used to call me here? I had a nickname. They called me —"

"Moreau's Rottweiler."

Nate stated it like the fact it was.

In the mirror, the Rottweiler's dead eyes were replaced by Eliot Spencer's wide, horrified ones.

"How did you — ? Did Juan — ?" Though the thought of Juan telling anyone, even Nate, made Eliot sick to his stomach, he didn't know how else Nate could have known.

"No, he didn't." Nate's face was unreadable now. "We did talk about you last night — well, that's not true. He did most of the talking, asking how you'd been, if I knew what you were up to before the team got together, if you were being a good boy and eating your vegetables and getting along with the other kids at school."

Eliot clenched his fists to quiet the urge to punch Nate. Juan was a good man, and no one mocked him in Eliot's presence. But his heart did lift a little at thought of Juan eagerly asking about him — and Nate's awkwardness in response.

"I did a lot of research on Moreau when the Italian first came to us," Nate said. "Everything I could find, which wasn't much even in recent years. There was far less from when he was starting out. I learned he was essentially a warlord in San Lorenzo, though I didn't realize to what extent. And some of what I found mentioned his right-hand man, known only as Moreau's Rottweiler. No name, no photo, but he did all Moreau's dirty work, and he was more feared even than Moreau himself. When you told us you used to work for him, I knew that had to be you. Like you said, you're the best."

While Nate was talking, a growing uneasiness settled over Eliot, which evolved into near panic at that last, almost mocking, phrase: _You're the best._ Bile started to rise in Eliot's throat. How much did Nate know about the Rottweiler? Did he know the types of things he'd done? Did he know the worst thing?

Eliot drank some beer to wash down the bile, and the welcome burnt taste brought with it an image of Pete laughing, raising his San Pedro in the traditional toast. The memory gave Eliot the courage to speak.

"What do you know about him?" He was surprised at how casual his voice sounded, but he doubted Nate was convinced. "About the types of things the Rottweiler did?"

"Not much." Nate waved one hand, pouring yet another drink with the other. His tone matched Eliot's in its casualness. "I mean, there's no proof of anything, only conjecture. And it's hard to tell what's real and what's rumor."

Eliot's heart pounded, but he forced himself to ask the question. He needed to know. "Did you — Did you ever come across a family by the name of —"

"Like I said, Eliot. Conjecture. Rumor. I don't even know what I know."

Nate's tone was hard and cold as steel.

Uninviting. End of subject. No more questions.

The room suddenly seemed too hot, too small. Did Nate know? If so, why didn't he just say it?

"Are you lying to me?"

Nate cocked an eyebrow. "Why would I lie about that?"

To protect him. But from what? From Nate's opinion? No. Nate couldn't possibly know. Like he'd just said, he believed God believed in forgiveness; he didn't believe in it himself. If Nate, who had lost his own child to cancer, knew that Eliot Spencer, Moreau's Rottweiler, had murdered an entire family, including a child as young as two, he would never be able to sit one seat away and casually drink whiskey. Even Nate Ford, Mastermind, wasn't that good a grifter.

Was he?

.

.

.

An announcement sounded over the loudspeaker.

Nate poured himself the last of his bottle and knocked it back. "That's my flight."

He stood and took a wad of cash from his wallet — more cash than was necessary, Eliot observed — and placed it on the bar. Apparently Nate hadn't planned on taking a free bottle of whiskey from the generous San Lorenzan bartender after all.

Eliot watched Nate closely. He looked better. Relaxed. Very relaxed. Even when he was drinking, Nate always carried around a tension in his shoulders that Eliot had noticed ever since they first started working together. That was why Nate had seemed so odd this morning. That omnipresent tension was gone now.

Eliot smirked. If he didn't know better, he'd have guessed the mastermind had gotten himself laid last night.

He felt his jaw drop as the truth hit him. He turned away from Nate toward the bar, and saw his own eyes widen in the mirror as he reviewed the evidence. Nate, drunk in bed, not answering his door. Sophie, out of breath, answering the door to her own room a few moments later than expected — her room that shared a door with Nate's. Sophie's overeager responses to Nate, Nate's fake smiles in return, Sophie's hesitance to talk to Nate, Nate's slight hurt at Eliot coming to talk to him instead of Sophie.

Holy shit.

No. Impossible. Sophie would never let their years of sexual cat-and-mouse finally end up in a drunken night of sex after a successful con.

Eliot rubbed his forehead roughly. Oh, who was he kidding? That sounded exactly like the kind of thing that would turn them both on.

He shuddered at the thought, but he felt another wave of relief that he'd made the decision to stay. There was no way Parker and Hardison would be able to deal with that aftermath alone.

The loneliness started to swell in his chest again — the one that reminded him how envious he was of Maria and Matty, of Parker and Hardison, and now Nate and Sophie — but he refused to wallow in it. He pushed it away as Nate took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and passed it to him.

Eliot frowned. "What's this for?"

"Give it to Maria. Tell her I lost the bet."

Eliot tensed slightly. "What bet?"

Nate waved a dismissive hand. "We had a chat last night, and —"

"Was that chat before or after you apologized for calling her a 'crazy hormonal bitch' the other day?" Eliot clenched his fists; he still hadn't forgotten that.

Nate actually had the grace to look ashamed. "I apologized for that days ago. Right after it happened, actually. We worked it out." He put his wallet away. "And for the record, she scares me a hell of a lot more than you do. Or Matty. Trust me, she can handle herself just fine. She doesn't need anyone, especially a man, to fight her battles for her."

Eliot smirked. "Did she tell you that?"

"No, but she told Matty that when he demanded I apologize." Nate chuckled. "And speaking of the good general …"

Nate paused, and the Sam pain flashed across his face once more. He cleared his throat.

"Tell him there's no hard feelings. I was … caught off-guard. What he said — it was …" He frowned deeply.

Eliot nodded; he knew what Nate was trying to say. "I'll tell him. Wouldn't want that Catholic guilt to eat him alive, would we?"

"Right." Nate smirked. "And tell him he owes me one of those new notes with Sophie's face on it."

Eliot gritted his teeth. Matty, too? "What the hell was this bet, exactly?"

Nate gathered up his jacket and hat. "That I would be the one to convince you to stay with the team."

Eliot rolled his eyes. The whole thing was probably Maria's idea. But … "You didn't think you could?"

Nate shrugged. "You're even more of a stubborn bastard than I am. Once you make a decision, it's next to impossible to convince you otherwise."

Eliot's heart sped up. Nate was leaving, and there were a couple more things he needed to say.

"I'm staying, Nate, but we need to be clear on a few things. We need to trust each other. You need to see me as an ally in protecting the team, not someone who needs to be protected."

Nate's jaw tightened. "Of course." He moved to put on his jacket.

Eliot grabbed his arm. "I'm serious, Nate. I don't need you to protect me. I'm not a child. I'm not …" He paused, remembering the look of pain in Nate's eyes. "I'm not Sam."

Nate froze in the middle of putting on his jacket, his breath catching in his throat at the sound of his son's name. His face twisted in agony for a split second, and then his mask — not unlike Eliot's or Matty's — was back up. He finished putting on his jacket, straightening the collar and tugging at the sleeves for an unnecessarily long time. Then he took a deep, shaky breath, grabbed Eliot by the arms like Juan always did, and looked him right in the eyes.

"Eliot, you are the most honorable man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You are the type of man I always hoped Sam would grow up to be."

A lump formed in Eliot's throat. His vision blurred as he looked into the eyes of Nathan Ford. He couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to say — that he'd never in his life received a higher compliment — but Nate seemed to understand.

He gave a short nod and let go of Eliot. "I'd better go catch my flight. Hardison's not going to be too happy if he has to rebook it."

Eliot cleared his throat. "See you in two weeks, then."

"Yep," Nate said. "See you next week."

"We said _two _weeks."

Nate smirked, walking past him toward the exit. "See you in a few days, Eliot."

"Two weeks, Nate!"

Nate threw a wave over his shoulder as he left the bar.

Eliot grumbled something unintelligible as he turned back to the bar to finish his beer.

Oh yeah. These people would be the death of him, all right.

He smiled. And he was going to enjoy every damned minute of it.


	28. Chapter 28

_Hello everyone! Thank you for all of your kind reviews. I love reading them, even if I can't respond to them all individually._

_So … remember how I said that the previous chapter was the last chapter and the only thing left was the epilogue? Well, I was working on the epilogue, figuring I could cram everything else in there when I realized it was getting far too long! I debated leaving some of it out, but if I can't fit everything I want into my own story – and especially my own _fanfiction_ – then what's the point of life, the universe and everything anyway?_

_Thus, another chapter. It will be followed by a second, even longer chapter. I had planned to put it all into one mega-chapter and get it over with, but it was taking too long and I figured I should give you something now rather than all of it in who knows how long. I hope you'll indulge me and find these last couple of chapters (and then, of course, the epilogue) at least moderately entertaining. Thanks again for (still) reading!_

* * *

Eliot actually found himself whistling as he walked up the steps to the Flores mansion. The entrance he'd fought his way through that fateful night years ago when he tried to kill Juan was a different obstacle now. San Lorenzo was a small country, and word that the legendary Commander Eliot Spencer had returned traveled fast. Eliot found himself wanting to knock out the guards just to get away from their awed stares and reverent questions.

He didn't, of course. That would have been awkward. Well — more awkward.

In spite of all that, his heart was light when he knocked on the door.

No one answered. He knocked again.

Nothing.

He tensed, what Hardison geekily called his _spidey senses_ tingling. Crouching, he moved to the nearest window, ten feet to the right of the door, and listened. To his slight dismay, the window was open — the weather was beautiful today — but he was somewhat mollified by the narrowly-spaced bars running vertically along the outside. Matty's security measures, no doubt. When he heard voices, he allowed himself a peek in.

Matty and Maria were standing at the foot of the grand staircase, which took up most of the large entrance hall.

"… just go upstairs?" Maria was saying. "Papa's napping, Eliot's not here yet, and Mama's still out with Berto. If we're quick —"

"I don't think it's a good idea, Maria." Matty's voice was small and quiet.

"Do you not —" Tears strangled Maria's words. "Do you not want me?"

Matty made an odd noise, somewhere between a choke and a gasp. He reached up to stroke his wife's face. "God, no." When he spoke, he, too, sounded on the verge of tears. "That's not it at all. It's just that —"

"You're still feeling guilty," said Maria.

Matty bowed his head, eyes squeezing shut.

"Cut it out," Maria snapped. Matty looked up sharply, wincing. "Now you're just being stupid. I want to move on." Her tone softened, pleading. "I needto move on. I need to know we're okay now, _mi amor_. Are —" She sniffed, wiping her eyes. "Are we okay now?"

Matty stared at Maria for what seemed like an eternity. No, _stare_ wasn't the right word — he gazed upon her. His mask, that omnipresent brave soldier face, was nowhere to be seen; instead, his face overflowed with respect, admiration, with love for the woman in front of him. In that moment, Matty Ramirez's heart was so open Eliot felt embarrassed to be watching.

Matty reached his hand out and ran it through Maria's hair. Then he slowly, gently, passionately brought her face to his until their lips met. Maria shuddered, letting out a little whimper, and she seemed to melt into him as he brought his arms around her and held her close. The kiss was somehow soft, and rough, and desperate, and romantic, and _real_ all at the same time.

When it finally ended, only their lips parted. The rest of them, up to their foreheads, were entwined with each other. Matty whispered, "Do you know how much I love you?"

"Probably just a little bit less than I love you," Maria said.

Matty looked to the heavens and shook his head with a smile. "Always a competition with you."

"Damn right."

Maria initiated the kiss this time, but when Matty brought his hands up to her face, he pushed her away. She let out an almost frustrated sigh.

Without opening his eyes, Matty asked, "How much time do you think we have?"

"Enough," Maria breathed, her voice husky.

She grabbed his hand and eagerly pulled him up the staircase.

Matty followed, an almost lecherous look in his eyes, and Eliot took that as his cue to leave. He could go to a bar for an hour and come back later.

But when he turned to move away from the window, a twig snapped.

He froze, but so did the footsteps on the stairs.

"You go on up," Matty said. "I'll be there in a sec."

"Okay." Maria sounded breathless, nervous, but Eliot didn't hear her continue to move up the stairs.

And he felt, more than heard, Matty approach the window. The only sound was the very distinctive click of a round being chambered in a Second Generation Colt Single Action Army revolver, which Eliot deduced was almost definitely an heirloom passed from the elder General Ramirez to his son.

Since he had no doubt that Matty wouldn't hesitate to shoot when the safety of his family was involved, Eliot decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

He put his hands behind his head out of sheer habit and yelled, "It's me, Ramirez! Put the gun away, you trigger-happy son of a bitch!"

Another distinctive click, and Matty appeared in the window. "El?"

At the same time, the front door opened and Maria appeared. "Eliot, what on earth are you doing out here?"

"Maria." Matty pinched his nose. "When I told you to go upstairs, I didn't secretly mean, 'Go open the door and expose yourself.'"

Maria _tsk_ed.

"He's right," Eliot said, dusting off his jeans. "I could have been someone trying to kill you."

"Talk about paranoid." Maria held the door open for Eliot with a heavy roll of her eyes. "I'm pretty sure all the people who want to kill us are in the Tombs now."

Eliot and Matty gave nearly identical snorts.

"If I wanted to kill you, I'd wait until you thought you were safe and let your guard down," said Eliot.

"Exactly," Matty added.

"Don't 'exactly' me, Mateo Ramirez," Maria scolded. "I saw where you pulled that gun from. We have a toddler, and you're storing loaded guns on shelves?"

"First of all, it wasn't loaded," Matty corrected. "I loaded it myself just now. And second, I had to reach over my head to get it. I'm pretty sure Berto can neither see nor grab it."

Maria put her hands on her hips. "Are there more in the house?"

Matty paused just long enough for Eliot to see he was lying. "No."

Maria clearly didn't believe him either and, judging by the enormous breath she took, was about to embark on a long tirade, but Matty was spared.

"What's going on?" Juan came down the stairs, brow furrowed in concern at the sight of the three of them in the hall, one of whom was holding a gun.

"Eliot was eavesdropping, and Matty almost shot him," Maria explained.

Juan raised an eyebrow. "I see."

Matty unloaded the gun and was preparing to return it to its hiding place when Maria said, "Oh no. That is going upstairs, in our bedroom, locked in the bedside table."

"Maria, it's actually farther out of his reach if I put it back —"

Maria rounded on her father. "Did you know there are multiple guns hidden around this house?"

Juan calmly walked down the last few steps and folded his arms, staring down his daughter.

"Do you think," he said evenly, "that this family survived dozens of assassination attempts because I _wasn't_ prepared?"

Maria's jaw dropped to the floor.

"Enzo and I secured this house," Juan continued, referring to Lorenzo Ramirez, Matty's father. "Years before you were even born, _mija_." He frowned as Matty reached up to once again conceal the gun in its hiding place. "That spot was clearly Enzo's doing. I can't even reach it." He turned his gaze back on his daughter. "So if you're going to be angry at anyone, be mad at us. At least Matty comes by it honestly."

Eliot tried not to laugh out loud as Maria's mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to form words. Even then all she managed was, "Does Mama know about this?"

Juan smiled. "And you come by that honestly." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "She has never liked it, but she finally came around after a particularly close call a few weeks before your eleventh birthday."

Maria closed her eyes, steepling her fingers around her nose and mouth and breathing deeply a few times. Then, eyes snapping open, she whirled to face Eliot, and with a fake smile and a sickly sweet tone, said, "Eliot. How did your conversation with Nate go?"

The sudden change of topic nearly gave Eliot whiplash as he instantly found himself the center of attention, three faces turning to him in question.

He took a deep breath of his own and managed to keep his face impassive as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

"Nate said to give you this," he told Maria. "Said he lost a bet."

It took her only a moment to register his answer; when she did, her fake smile turned into a genuine grin, and she threw her arms around him with a squeal.

Eliot chuckled awkwardly but embraced her. He always forgot how much the Floreses loved hugging.

Over her shoulder, he said to Matty, "And he says you owe him one of those new notes with Sophie's face on it."

Matty swore in Spanish.

"Would someone care to explain?" asked Juan.

"He's staying with the team," Maria said, pulling away from Eliot.

"Of course he is," said Juan mildly. "Was there ever any doubt?"

Eliot blinked. "Yes, there was. I didn't decide until I talked with Nate."

Juan's knowing smile would have seemed patronizing on anyone else. Coming from him, though, it warmed Eliot's insides.

"We didn't doubt," Maria said. "Nate did. We were betting on _who_ would convince him. And it was Nate. I was right." She folded the twenty with a flourish and put it in her pocket.

"Then why did you lose?" Juan asked Matty.

"Because I thought it would be you."

Juan frowned, and Eliot could have sworn he sounded a little hurt. "It wasn't?"

"It was all of you," Eliot hurried to explain, and Juan's smile returned. "But technically it was Nate, which is why you lost," he added to Matty.

"Whatever," Matty said. He grabbed Maria's hand and pulled her toward the stairs. "Listen, we'll catch up later. Maria and I have some, er, things to discuss. Upstairs."

"Matty," Maria chided. "Eliot's here now."

"Yes." Matty turned to Eliot and Juan, undeterred. "I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on. Why don't you go have a scotch or something? We'll see you in a bit."

Maria blushed. "Matty, Papa is standing right here."

Matty pulled her into his arms and kissed her. "And he has one going on three grandchildren. I'm pretty sure he knows how they were made."

Juan looked away, clearly making an effort not to laugh, and Maria turned an even darker shade of red.

Eliot actually did laugh. "Is it really that urgent, Ramirez?"

Matty stopped and fixed Eliot with a serious look. "Have you ever had we-just-saved-the-country sex?"

Juan muttered, "Yes."

Maria groaned and buried her face in her hands, and Eliot felt his own cheeks heat — he did not need to hear that.

Matty's eyes widened in horror.

"Come now, Matty," Juan said, eyes sparkling. "I have two children. I'm pretty sure you know how they were made."

That made Matty flush a deep red, and Eliot dearly wished he could melt into a wall.

"Still want to go upstairs?" Maria asked.

"Shut up," grumbled Matty.

From downstairs, a female voice called, "Hello? We're home! Juan, come help with the groceries."

Eliot saw Maria and Matty exchange an exhausted, resigned look before they followed him and Juan downstairs to the kitchen.

.

.

.

As Eliot walked through the mansion, he noted that it was smaller than he remembered. He reminded himself that although it was considered a "mansion" in San Lorenzo, the Floreses' home was not large so much as old, like the brownstones in Boston. And old houses had grand staircases, libraries, parlors, and downstairs kitchens, because servants cooking dinner should never be seen.

But upon entering the kitchen, Eliot found that it was the one area of the house that had not only lived up to his memory, but exceeded it. Though small, it had been completely updated — beautiful mahogany cabinets, a brand new perfectly-sized island, granite counter tops in a speckled dark gray, stainless steel appliances, and recessed lighting that made the dark, basement room seem cozy rather than dungeon-like. His jaw dropped in awe. And envy.

"A gift to Anita for our fortieth wedding anniversary a couple years ago," Juan said in response. "As a result, no one besides her is allowed to cook in it without her express permission."

"That should be good for you, right?" Eliot asked.

"In theory. In practice, it means I'm nearly always stuck with clean-up duty."

Eliot grinned. Juan might have been respected and even feared throughout the country by friend and foe alike, but at home he was just a husband and father, expected to do chores and pull his own weight like everyone else.

Juan and Matty started unpacking groceries, and Eliot moved to help. Maria held the door open for Anita, whose hands were full with even more bags. But before she could enter, a tiny blur streaked by her and slammed into Matty's legs.

"Papa!" a small voice squealed, cracking on the first syllable.

"Hey, _mijo_!" Matty bent over and scooped up a little boy, tossing him into the air. Nothing dangerous — he held the child just above his head and let go for half a second, resulting in a drop of maybe three inches.

But the effect on the toddler was immediate and immense. He giggled uncontrollably. Matty did it a second time. "Papa, stop!"

"Stop what?" Matty asked, his voice somehow both animated and serious. "This?" He tossed the boy a third time, and, if possible, the giggling increased.

Eliot had heard the phrase, "my heart was in my throat," but he had never truly understood it until that moment, as he watched Matty play with his young son. The unbridled joy in the little boy's laughter, sheer adoration of his father evident on his face; the happiness and unconditional love in Matty's eyes at evoking that look; the pure love and admiration on Maria's face as she gazed at her husband and son, cradling the two babies she would soon bring into the world. This was Pete's legacy. And, though he felt all kinds of feelings swirling around inside him — pride, envy, loneliness, happiness — it was Eliot's legacy, too. The two of them had started this nearly a decade ago with Pete's ridiculous matchmaking scheme, and Pete had been willing to die to make sure it succeeded.

If Eliot chose, he could continue that legacy. Hardison and Parker had admitted their feelings for each other, and Nate and Sophie had finally succumbed to their years of built-up sexual tension. Things would be a lot different on the Leverage team going forward. Perhaps Eliot could help them like he and Pete had helped Matty and Maria. God knew Nate and Hardison could use the assistance in the romance department; Parker had never been in a relationship, and Sophie was sure to have incredibly high expectations. If the payoff was anything remotely close to what Eliot was feeling right now as he watched Matty and Maria's young family, he could get used to that.

"Oh my God. Eliot." Anita dropped the bags she was holding onto the counter and covered her hands with her mouth in a gasp.

Anita Flores was a short, middle-aged Hispanic woman who was Juan's partner in every way. Like him, she was kind, understanding, and welcoming, and always seemed to know the right thing to say at exactly the right time. She had aged since the last time Eliot had seen her; her pixie-short hair was now almost completely gray. In stark contrast to her daughter, she had a quiet, stoic strength about her, the kind required of the matriarch of a politically active — and constantly endangered — family like the Floreses. Eliot had always been able to tell by the sadness in her eyes and the deep wrinkles on her face that this strength was the product of sustained grief. He idly wondered if she was an orphan, too, since the Floreses had never had any extended family that he knew of. But even if she hadn't lost her own parents, she had lost her dear friends the Ramirezes and raised their child as her own, before losing her own son to someone she had considered a friend of the family. She'd most certainly seen her fair share of violence, as evidenced by Juan's anecdote about Maria's eleventh birthday, and her husband had been imprisoned at least twice, probably more. And in spite of all that, she had never, in all the time Eliot had known her, greeted him with anything less than a smile, a hug, and a meal.

Which was exactly what she did right now.

She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. Then she kissed him once on each cheek in the traditional San Lorenzan greeting and held his face in her hands, studying it with an enormous smile.

"Look at you," she breathed. "Oh, it's so good to see you, Eliot." Her eyes moved up and down his face, drinking him in.

Eliot was unprepared for such an emotional reception, or for the strength of his own response to such tenderness. He was overcome by an immense yearning, suddenly aware of the affection he'd been missing for far too long. The team had largely filled that void, but it was the physical connection, the familial hugs and caresses, that no amount of one-night-stands could ever replace.

Anita shook her head, as though Eliot were a dream and not standing right in front of her. She brushed his hair with her fingers and frowned, tilting her head to one side.

"Your hair. It's so long." Then, after a moment's contemplation, she straightened and gave an approving nod. "I like it. I see what you mean, Maria. It suits him."

"I told you." Maria was holding her son now; he sat on her hip, in one arm, while she waved her free hand in a vague gesture that was clearly meant to encompass all of Eliot. "It really goes with the whole 'bad boy' vibe, doesn't it?"

"Exactly," Anita said with an odd smile on her face.

A surge of discomfort shot through Eliot.

Juan chuckled with a shake of his head. Matty, on the other hand, stiffened; he didn't glare or even look at Eliot, but his face hardened into an impassive mask.

"Really?" he asked his wife, and Eliot heart an iota of pain that Matty had been unable to hold back. "Should I grow my hair out like that?"

"Absolutely not." Maria's tone brooked no argument. "I don't like bad boys." She reached out the arm that wasn't holding her child and, with a mischievous smirk, ran a hand through Matty's regulation-short hair. "I like honorable, goody-two-shoes heroes."

Rather than roll his eyes in either annoyance or embarrassment at the remark, as Eliot had expected, Matty gave an almost devilish grin and pulled his wife — toddler in tow — close.

"I could be a bad boy, you know," he muttered. "But only if you promised to punish me."

Maria flushed, actually using the child in her arms to shield her face from everyone. "Mateo Ramirez!"

"Oh my." Anita flashed Juan a questioning look, and Juan's small smile brought a large one to her face. It was obvious to Eliot that they, too, had been worried about Matty and Maria. "Do we need to give you two some alone time?"

"Actually —" Matty started.

"No, Mama. We're not teenagers. In fact," Maria perked up, eager to change the subject, "there's something important we need to do right now. Eliot, I'd like to introduce you to someone."

Eliot froze, heart pounding. He'd been dreading this moment.

"This is our son, Berto," said Maria. "Can you say hi, Berto?"

Little Berto Ramirez had Maria's deep brown eyes, but in all other aspects he looked like a miniature Matty — same straight brown hair cut the same way, same nose, same crooked little mouth, even the same dimpled chin.

At his mother's question, Berto buried his face in her neck.

Apparently he also harbored the same intense dislike for one Eliot Spencer.

Eliot tried to force his expression into something that was definitely not a disappointed scowl. As Hardison so often reminded him, scowling was his default expression. He was probably scaring the kid.

"Berto," Maria prompted. "Do you know who that is?"

Berto shook his head, still hiding his face.

"That's Uncle Eliot, _mijo_."

Before Eliot could protest that title, Berto looked at him with a frown, cocking his head like an adorably confused puppy.

"He doesn't look like Uncle Eliot." The boy's voice was high-pitched — definitely not the same as Matty's — but to Eliot's surprise, the words were easy to understand, even if he did pronounce his _L_'s like _Y_'s and the name like "Unco Ayet."

"He's seen you in the wedding pictures," Maria said, answering the question Eliot's brain would have gotten to eventually, after it was done processing the cuteness overload. "Why doesn't he look like Uncle Eliot, sweetheart?"

Berto turned away again, and, grabbing a chunk of his own hair, said in what he probably thought was a whisper, "His hair."

Everyone laughed — except Eliot. He had no idea how to interact with this kid. He hadn't been near a child this young since that night almost ten years ago. The little Perez girl had been two.

His heartbeat spiked, and he started to tremble.

"His hair is really long," Matty was saying. "He needs a haircut, doesn't he?"

"I don't like haircuts," Eliot growled. It was an automatic response. What was everyone's issue with his hair?

At that declaration, the little boy's face broke into the most precious, shy grin Eliot had ever seen. He turned toward his mother's face but looked at Eliot out of the corner of his eye.

"Me either." He pronounced the word like "eezer."

Everyone laughed again, but it was Berto's smile that slowed Eliot's pulse to only a little faster than normal. The boy alternated a few times between hiding his face and shyly looking at Eliot before rubbing his eyes and frowning.

"Mama, I'm hungry," he whined.

"Okay, _mijo_, let's see if we can get you a snack to hold you over until dinner."

Because the pantry was diagonally across the kitchen from her, Maria walked toward Eliot along the island and rounded the corner. Eliot moved out of her way and then some; he didn't want to get too close to the kid.

But as they walked by, Berto twisted around on his mother's hip and reached out to Eliot. Maria, her center of gravity off because of the pregnancy, struggled to hold on to him.

"Honey, don't, I can't hold you —"

But Berto didn't stop, and Maria's grip faltered.

Time seemed to slow down.

Everyone in the kitchen moved, but Eliot was closest. Reflexively, he reached out to catch the boy.

An instant later, Eliot stood still, arms outstretched, Berto dangling happily from his hands as though this had been part of his plan all along. Maybe it had.

Eliot was frozen in place, unable to command his body to move. His breathing grew ragged, and he started to shake. No. Shaking was bad. A memory forced itself out of that padlocked box.

_The job was almost done. Only the baby was left. A two-year-old. He'd grabbed her first, but not even Moreau's Rottweiler could start with that._

_Now, as he bent to pick her up, she reached out to him. He shook so hard he almost dropped her. He caught her at the last moment, heart pounding._

_The irony was not lost on the Rottweiler._

_He thought about not doing it. She was a baby._

_Then he remembered the hunger in Chapman's eyes. If he left her, they might —_

_She suddenly stopped wriggling and fell limp as a rag doll in his hands._

_He'd been shaking so hard he snapped her neck accidentally._

_Her eyes stared at him, empty and lifeless._

"Eliot." General Flores's commanding voice was soft but firm.

The tension had skyrocketed. No one else moved or made a sound, although Matty was coiled so tightly Eliot could feel him vibrating.

Then Berto, still dangling, reached out to Eliot once again. Instinctively, before he even realized what he was doing, Eliot brought the boy into his arms and settled him on his hip.

Little Berto Ramirez wrapped his pudgy little arms around Eliot's neck and laid his tiny, adorable head on Eliot's shoulder. His big brown eyes gazed up, and he smiled, squirming a little until he was settled just right.

He wasn't afraid of the Rottweiler.

Eliot held the boy tighter. He was soft and warm and smelled both familiar and comforting, though Eliot couldn't pinpoint why. As the moments passed, Eliot's breathing slowed, his heart rate returned to normal, and he stopped shaking. Something deep inside his chest felt warmer than it had in ages.

"Hi, Berto," he croaked. "I'm Eliot."

Berto picked up his head and pointed his finger far too close to Eliot's eye. "No. _Uncle_ Eliot. _Tio_. Like Uncle Berto. Did you know Uncle Berto? He has my name!" The boy sat up straight and slapped his chest a few times, as if this were a source of pride.

Eliot paused, uncertain how the rest of the family would react to the mention of Berto Flores, but no one seemed taken upset or surprised. Not even Juan.

Eight years was a long time. Time enough to heal.

Maybe he should take a page from their book.

"No," he said. "I didn't know Uncle Berto. But I do know he was a very brave man. I bet you'll grow up just like him."

"I am brave!" Berto declared. "Brave like Uncle Berto and Uncle Pete."

Eliot's heart skipped a few beats, and he choked, "Uncle Pete?"

"_Si._" Berto nodded vigorously, then stopped suddenly, cocking his head. His eyebrows rose comically high and his eyes widened. "Did you know Uncle Pete?" His voice went up an entire octave across the duration of the question.

Eliot took a deep breath. Somehow his heart, in spite of the initial skips, was continuing on at its normal rate.

Eight years _was_ a long time. Like Mind Pete had said, there was a statute of limitations on these things.

"Berto, sweetie —" Maria started.

"Yes, I did," Eliot answered. "He was my friend. He was very brave, too." He paused, then added, "And very funny."

"Funny like Papa?" Berto asked. "Papa makes funny faces."

Eliot looked at Matty, whose face wasn't funny but beaming, smiling proudly at his son. Eliot thought about how over the past couple of days — when they weren't biting each other's heads off — there were a few times when Matty had cracked jokes when things started to get too serious. Just like Pete always had.

"Yeah, funny like Papa," Eliot said, gaze on Matty. Then he turned to Berto. "He _does_ have a funny face, doesn't he?"

Matty narrowed his eyes, unamused. His son, however, giggled.

Though Eliot had always heard people talk about the magic of children's laughter, he'd never found it particularly special. But Berto's giggle was a musical, contagious sound, causing Eliot to grin reflexively. For some reason this made Berto laugh even more, which made Eliot smile more, in a not-so-vicious circle that Eliot hoped wouldn't come to an end.

When it finally did, Berto snuggled into Eliot's neck and gave an adorable contented sigh. Eliot pulled his gaze from the boy to find the eyes of everyone on him. He knew he should probably feel embarrassed, but he didn't. He felt … right.

"I'm hungry," Berto whined again. Life-changing distractions aside, he was not to be deterred.

Anita sighed. "I know, _niño_. But I'm exhausted. I don't want to cook anything."

Eliot cleared his throat. "Actually, I was thinking I might make dinner."

Silence for a long moment.

Then the room burst into laughter.

Juan attempted to break it to him gently. "Eliot, as much as we appreciate the offer …"

"Absolutely not," Anita said firmly.

"Yes, Anita would much rather trust you with her grandson than her kitchen, which shows where her priorities lie." Matty rolled his eyes with a good-natured smile. "I'm sure ramen noodles are probably fine for the team after your cons, but that's not going to fly here."

"I'm sorry, Eliot." Maria was the only one to actually sound sympathetic. "That's awfully sweet but … you can't cook."

Eliot just grinned.

Eight years _was_ a long time.


	29. Chapter 29

_Here is the penultimate chapter. It's long and pretty emotionally intense. I thought about breaking it up (for length and emotional arc reasons) but decided I didn't want to make you guys wait around any longer. Thanks to quirkapotamus for a quick beta._

_And thank you all for still reading! I know it's been a while, but this is almost the end. The last (much shorter, fluffier chapter) will be posted next week. Promise. I love you all._

* * *

"And this is my favorite truck," Berto said, handing Eliot a bright red firetruck. "And this is my favorite ball."

Eliot added both to the growing pile of toys on his lap. Berto seemed to be showing him every toy he owned, and they all seemed to be his favorite.

They'd just finished cleaning up after dinner — some delicious, memory-soaked spaghetti. The recipe was Pete's. Eliot had cooked it for the team the first time several years ago, and though they all loved it and begged for it often, he saved it only for special occasions. The painful memories always made him avoid it. But if the defeat of Moreau wasn't a special or appropriate occasion for such a meal, he didn't know what was.

Still, he'd felt a little raw after it was over. Pete had made his spaghetti for the Floreses before, so everyone understood the importance of Eliot cooking it, and though no one had said or even implied anything, he felt stupid, almost embarrassed, for being so sentimental.

Now they were lounging lazily in what must once have been the library of the large house, but which the Floreses used as a general family room. Shelves full of books lined the walls; toys scattered the floor, though they were rapidly being collected in Eliot's lap. Eliot sat in a comfortable arm chair, a place of honor of sorts. Maria and Matty sat together on a couch to his left, Anita and Juan sat on a couch to his right, and a coffee table sat in the middle of the _U_ they formed.

"Eliot," Maria said. "Where on earth did you learn to cook like that?"

He smiled. The best part of the evening had been the looks on everyone's faces when they'd realized he more than knew what he was doing.

"Belgium."

Everyone laughed.

"I'm serious. I traveled around a lot after I left, and I met someone in Belgium who …" He trailed off. "I learned a lot of things, but he taught me how to cook."

He decided not to describe the circumstances under which he'd met Toby, or just how much the art of cooking had helped him to recover from Pete's death and his exile from San Lorenzo. Making Pete's spaghetti for them felt like too much vulnerability as it was.

"Wherever you learned it," Anita said. "Dinner was wonderful. You are officially welcome to cook in my kitchen any time you like."

"And that is high praise, indeed," Juan added.

"This is my favorite bear," Berto said, shoving a tattered, faded teddy bear into Eliot's hands before trying and, after three attempts and two refusals of help, climbing into Eliot's lap. He settled himself between Eliot's side and the arm of the chair, nestling into the crook of Eliot's elbow, and started to play with his toys. Eliot couldn't help a smile.

Berto had been stuck to him like glue since the incident in the kitchen. He didn't mind. In fact, to his surprise, he actually enjoyed it. Something about the boy's innocence made him feel more calm and relaxed than he'd felt in a long time.

"If he starts to bother you, Eliot, you can send him over here." Maria gave her husband a quick glance as she spoke. Matty, whose arm was wrapped around her, didn't meet it; he just stared as his son sat contentedly in Eliot's lap, a hard, impassive mask on his face.

Eliot had an idea what that was about, and he felt a little bad about it, but he didn't want to get into it with Matty right now. "Nah, he's fine. What's your bear's name?" he asked Berto.

"_Señor Oso_," Berto said, hugging the bear tightly.

Eliot tried not to smirk. "Mr. Bear. How did you come up with that name?"

"I didn't. _Abuelo_ did."

Juan smiled. "How many times do I have to tell you, _mijo_? Ididn't call it that. _Tío_ Berto, did."

"And when she was passed to me, I called her _Señorita Osa_," Maria said. "But apparently Papa forgot about that. Or maybe he thinks teddy bears should always be male."

Juan's eyeroll was undercut by the smirk that graced his lips. He stood and walked over to one of the bookshelves that, Eliot realized upon further inspection, had been appropriated as a liquor cabinet. An entire shelf, floor to ceiling, full of scotch. "She'll never let me live that one down. _Señor Oso_ was his original name. If anyone was sexist, it was your brother."

Eliot tensed at the comment, but no one else seemed to think it was odd.

"Oh, I told him so on numerous occasions." Maria lifted her chin and looked down her nose. "Eventually he saw it my way."

The room fell into silence while Juan pondered his enormous scotch collection.

Eliot cleared his throat. "You're very — uh —" He wasn't sure how to say what he meant without offending anyone.

"Open?" Anita offered. "About Berto?"

Eliot dropped his gaze, the evening's earlier discussion of "Uncle Pete" still on his mind. "And other people."

"We think it's important to honor the people we've lost by remembering them," Maria said. "We do the same with Matty's parents." Her pause was just long enough to make it obvious that she was avoiding a certain name. "I want our children to know them. I know Berto would have wanted that."

Matty, Eliot observed, was still silent, still watching his son snuggle with Eliot, jaw tightening with every passing minute.

Juan finally selected a bottle and brought it, along with five glasses, to the coffee table. He poured a finger's worth of an expensive-looking scotch — Eliot couldn't see the label — into each glass and started handing them out.

"Um," Eliot said to Maria. "Should you be …?"

Anita and Maria gave nearly identical scoffs. Like mother, like daughter.

"No uterus, no opinion, Spencer," daughter said with a huff.

"Alcohol in moderation is fine," mother added. "And certainly in celebration of something like this. We've been working toward yesterday for almost twenty years."

Matty and Juan didn't look too happy about the situation, but neither — wisely, Eliot thought — said anything. He followed their lead.

"Frankly, if I thought it would make them come sooner," Maria said, "I'd be doing shots. I want them here already."

She said the last with a tiny pout, like that of a child tired of waiting for Christmas morning to arrive. She took Matty's hand and gave him a tired smile, which he returned, though his heart didn't seem to be in it.

"I'm going to be a big brother!" Berto clapped his hands, bouncing on Eliot's lap. "I'm gonna have a baby brother and a baby sister and I'm gonna help and give them toys and can I have some, _Abuelo_?"

Without pausing for a segue or even a breath, he held out his cup to Juan, who had just handed Eliot a glass. Damn, his attention span was short.

"Of course you can!" Juan said animatedly.

He opened Berto's cup, sat it on the table, and with a sleight-of-hand even Parker would have found impressive, poured an extra bit of scotch into his own glass which was placed so it looked like he was pouring it into Berto's cup. He replaced the lid and presented it to the toddler with a flourish.

Berto looked skeptical for just long enough to make Eliot think he wouldn't buy it, but he finally took a drink of the juice. "Mmm!" He smacked his lips exaggeratedly.

And Eliot had thought he couldn't possibly get any more adorable.

Juan turned to the room, smiling. "A toast!"

"To San Lorenzo," said Anita.

"And victory at last," added Maria.

"To everyone who made it possible, past and present," said Juan.

"To those who aren't here to see it," Matty said softly.

A small pause.

"And to those who are," Juan finished. "Especially —" He raised his glass to Eliot. "Eliot, who has finally come back to us."

The look of sheer elation on his face made Eliot's throat burn.

Berto bounced up and down, shaking his unspillable — thank God — cup and shouting, "_Tío _Eliot!"

Everyone else raised their glasses and said, "To Eliot!"

Except for Matty, who barely managed to force his clenched jaw into a weak smile.

Eliot cleared his throat and gave a short, quick nod. "_A Dios, y San Lorenzo, y San Lorenzo._"

Everyone brought their glasses together with various _clink_s. Berto insisted on smacking his plastic cup against each person's glass in turn. The last person he reached was Matty, who had already knocked back his first drink and poured himself a second one by the time Berto got to him. His expression was blank as Berto climbed back into Eliot's lap, wrapped pudgy arms around his neck, and snuggled into his side again.

Eliot had been thinking a lot about what Mind Pete had said at the grave. And he understood Matty's jealousy, he really did. Especially tonight. Especially right now.

But that didn't mean he had to like it. It wasn't his fault Berto had latched onto him. Why couldn't Eliot enjoy for just one evening the type of attention Matty would get every day for the rest of forever from _three_ kids?

The remaining adults in the room seemed to have read the awkwardness between the two men because Maria nudged her husband.

"So, _General_ Ramirez." She grinned, stressing the title. "Yesterday you arrested Moreau. Today you arrested Ribera. Who's on the slate for tomorrow?"

Matty rolled his eyes and gave a shy smirk.

Eliot gritted his teeth. Only Matty Ramirez could reject and take a compliment at the same time.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Juan said. "How did your interrogation of Moreau go today?"

Matty leaned back with a sigh. "It didn't. We sat in the room. We stared at each other. I asked some questions. We stared some more. I left after about thirty minutes. He didn't say a single word."

"We expected that," said Maria.

Matty shook his head. "I expected him to be smug about it because he wanted to rattle me. But he was the one who looked rattled before I had even said anything."

Uh-oh. Eliot didn't like where this was going.

"Maybe he was scared of you," suggested Anita.

"No," Matty said. "I know when people are scared of me versus something else. And he was scared of something else." He looked pointedly at Eliot. "Some_one _else."

Dammit. Matty knew about his conversation with Moreau. "He told you?"

Matty blinked. "I didn't expect you to confess that quickly. Aren't you supposed to be some great thief who's evaded law enforcement for years?"

"Technically," Eliot growled. "I was just asking a question, not confessing —"

"You spoke with Moreau last night?" Juan asked.

Eliot refused to lie to Juan, but he wouldn't give Matty the satisfaction of a confession, either. So he compromised and said nothing.

Juan frowned. "When? And how?"

"During the party," Matty supplied. "He snuck down to the Tombs and told my men he was ordered to speak with Moreau. By me. And you." He nodded to Juan.

So it hadn't been Moreau after all. It had been that whip-smart Commander Alvarez. Damn him.

"And then, when they weren't quite convinced, he used the threat of your wrath," Matty added to his wife, "to keep them from calling me to double-check."

Maria's eyebrows shot up, and she leaned toward Eliot excitedly. "Did that really work?"

"What did you say to Moreau that scared him like that?" Juan asked.

"Forget all that," said Matty. "You conned my men!"

Berto, forehead wrinkled in adorable confusion, asked in a small, sweet voice, "Mama, what does 'con' mean?"

"It's like a trick. Like _engañar._"

Berto's little eyes widened in horror. "_Vosotros engañasteis_ Papa?" _You tricked Papa?_

Eliot snorted.

"No," Matty corrected firmly. "_Él engañó _Papa's _men._"

"Men you trained," Eliot muttered.

"Is that what this was about? A pissing match?" The anger faded from Matty's face, and he looked … hurt. "It's me, El. If you had just asked, I would have —"

"Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want anyone knowing?"

"Yes, it did." Matty's calm tone contrasted with Eliot's agitated one. "That's why I told Alvarez to let you go."

As gentle as the words were, they hit Eliot with the force of a baseball bat to the solar plexus.

"What — How — Alvarez didn't call you." He was sure of that. It had been the whole point of the con. He even remembered being disappointed in Alvarez for not calling; the man's instincts were right, but his execution had fallen just short.

Matty failed to hide a smug smirk. "He called me when you were in the Tombs."

Eliot's jaw dropped to the floor, and his gaze followed it.

He was such an idiot.

Of course Alvarez had called Matty after he'd gotten in the elevator. That was the smart thing to do. Let the legendary Commander Eliot Spencer, who could take out you and your three comrades without even breaking a sweat, descend into an inescapable prison. _Then_ call your general. If Spencer was telling the truth, no harm no foul. If he was lying — well, he was already trapped and back-up was on the way.

Why hadn't Eliot seen that? It was what he would have done in Alvarez's place.

When he finally opened his mouth to speak, Matty was ready.

"I know you're pissed, but if you had just —"

"You need to promote him," Eliot said. "Now."

Matty froze, mouth agape, before settling back in his seat, clearly pleased and not a little proud. "What do you think I've been doing all day?"

Eliot started to tick things off on his fingers. "Arresting Ribera, interrogating Moreau, setting up a new government …"

"Well, yeah." Matty waved a dismissive hand, like finally achieving his life's goal was no big deal. "But I've also been promoting and demoting people. Ditching the corrupt ones and advancing the good ones."

"So you made him your second-in-command?"

"I already have a second-in-command."

"Demote him. Alvarez —"

"I'm not going to demote _her_, sexist," Matty said. "She's the best officer I have, and Alvarez is still young and relatively inexperienced. But he's next in line. Lieutenant colonel."

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "Your second-in-command is a woman?"

"Don't act so surprised," Matty said. "Women can be soldiers, too, and damned good ones. And she's the first woman to be promoted to colonel in San Lorenzo history." He nudged Maria with his elbow. "I did that."

"Aw, do you want a cookie?" Maria said in a high babyish voice, sticking out her lower lip. Then she snorted. "It's 2010, Matty. One woman in the upper ranks in the forty-one years of this country's history is hardly anything to brag about. I expect a memo on my desk next week explaining how you plan to recruit more."

Matty laughed.

"I'm serious, Ramirez. As Minister of the Interior —"

"Your job is to deal with domestic issues, like setting up our brand new police force," Matty finished. "The military is my domain."

Maria shrugged. "If you say so."

"We are equal members of the cabinet, Flores." Matty's tone was slightly defensive, but not angry. "I do not answer to you at work."

"Yet," Maria said under her breath.

Matty's eyes widened. "Juan, tell her that I don't answer to her."

"Oh no," Juan chuckled. "I am not getting involved in this." As Matty turned back to Maria, he added quietly, "And I'll be advising Michael to do the same."

"Weren't you paying attention to Michael's presentation this morning?" Matty said. "He had a very clear flow chart that says you answer to the president and I answer to the president, and our boxes were nowhere near each other."

"It didn't seem that clear to me," Maria said. "A bunch of boxes with names of cabinet members jumbled together. I don't see why you _can't _answer to me …"

Anita leaned over to Eliot and said, quietly enough not to disturb the argument, "I hear you're responsible for this."

He threw his hands up in surrender. "I wasn't the one who brought up —"

"I mean them. Lately their arguments have been far too real. You have no idea how long it's been since they argued like this."

"If you think about it," Matty was saying, his tone playful, "it doesn't make sense for the military to be part of the Interior."

"Why not? It's part of the domestic workings of the country." Maria had a twinkle in her eye. "When was the last time San Lorenzo invaded another nation?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with anything!"

Eliot smiled. He couldn't deny it; they both seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. In fact, knowing them, it was probably some weird sort of foreplay.

"I don't know what you said, or how you did it," Anita said. "But you've obviously been matchmaking again."

Eliot's breath caught in his throat. Anita just gave him a kind, understanding smile and placed her hand on top of his.

"Well done," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

In order to be heard over Matty insisting, "We'll ask Michael about it tomorrow," she raised her voice and said, "Oh dear. It looks like someone is up past his bedtime."

Eliot looked down to see Berto rub his eyes and whimper, "Mama, I'm tired."

His parents rose from the couch not quite simultaneously. Maria grunted a little, hauling herself up. "I know, _mijo._ Let's get your pajamas on and go upstairs."

Berto clung to Eliot's arm. "Can Uncle Eliot take me to bed?"

Maria froze for just a moment, so quickly that Eliot barely caught it, then said, "Papa can take you to bed tonight, _bebé_. Remember the other night when you said you missed his bedtime stories?"

"Uncle Eliot, can you tell me a bedtime story?" Berto's face was hopeful and eager as he tugged on Eliot's sleeve, but it was his papa Eliot watched.

Matty's face had fallen, and for a moment Eliot saw an array of emotions: Grief. Jealousy. Insecurity. Betrayal. How one face could show so many types of pain, Eliot didn't know, but he saw all those on Matty's, whose eyes shone more brightly than a second before.

But, ever the brave soldier, Matty summoned his mask, pasted on a toothy grin, cleared his throat and said, "I bet Uncle Eliot tells great bedtime stories." His voice giving out on the last word was the only evidence that anything was wrong.

Eliot hoped that some day Matty's children would understand how good a man their father was.

"Yay, Uncle Eliot bedtime stories!" Berto clapped his hands excitedly.

"No." The harshness of Eliot's tone surprised even himself; the toddler in his lap actually jumped. "I hate bedtime stories."

Berto's gasped the cutest little horrified gasp Eliot had ever seen. "Mama, Uncle Eliot said he hates bedtime stories!"

"He did!" Maria said, just as horrified. "But you know who loves bedtime stories?"

"Papa!" Berto jumped down and ran to Matty. "You tell the best bedtime stories."

An enormous, genuine grin broke out onto Matty's face, and it made him look a decade younger. He crouched down to receive the running toddler into his open arms, holding him close for a few seconds before saying, "Come on, _mijo_. Say good night, and then you can choose your story while you brush your teeth."

Berto went over and kissed Juan and Anita on the cheeks. When he came to Eliot, he did the same. Eliot felt himself flush, and he actually touched the place Berto had kissed, like a lovestruck teenager.

"Will you take me to the park tomorrow?" the boy asked.

Eliot looked to Maria, a silent question. Was that something Matty usually did?

Maria gave a short nod of approval, and Eliot said, "Sure."

"Yay!" Berto clapped his hands. "Good night, _Tío _Eliot!" He gave a little wave and walked back to Matty.

Father and son moved to leave, Maria close behind.

"No! Only Papa!" Berto stuck his arm out straight in what was clearly meant to be a stop sign, but his hand and fingers were outstretched like he was about to cast a spell or conjure … whatever toddlers conjured. Ice cream?

Maria held up her hands in surrender. "Yes, sir. But I need a good night kiss before you go."

She sat down on the couch. Berto wrapped his arms around her, kissed her on the lips, and said, "_Buenas noches, Mama._"

"_Buenas noches, mijo._"

Berto reached up and slid his tiny hand into Matty's large one. As they walked out the door and into the hallway, he said, "Papa, maybe you should tell Uncle Eliot a story so he'll like them."

Matty burst into laughter, and the pure joy echoed down the hallway and back into the room, infecting Eliot.

"It's not a joke, Papa." Berto was serious. "Don't laugh."

"You're right." Mirth still colored Matty's tone. "Which story do you think I should tell him?"

Their voices faded away, but Eliot's smile remained.

.

.

.

"Thank you," Maria said softly.

Eliot shrugged. "It's true. I hate bedtime stories."

She gave him a flat look, and Eliot knew she didn't buy it. From Anita's cocked eyebrow, it was obvious she didn't either.

They all fell silent as they waited for Juan's reaction, but he didn't have one. His head leaned back against the couch, and his eyes were closed. Eliot hadn't noticed until that moment just how old Juan looked. He was hardly surprised; the man was in his early sixties and had just spent a week in prison. Upon being broken out, he'd stayed up most of the night celebrating, driven several hours round-trip to track down Eliot, and spent the rest of the day setting up a new government for his country. He deserved to sleep for a month, and then retire. Again.

But before Eliot could suggest anything, Anita shook her head as if to say, _Let him be for now._

"It was very sweet of you," she said aloud. "The last few weeks have been difficult for Matty, and I know Berto's missed him."

Eliot looked over at the sleeping Juan, the faint outline of a bruise and faded cuts still visible on his face. He started to take inventory of himself, too, but stopped after a few seconds when a wave of exhaustion and too graphic memories threatened to overwhelm him both physically and emotionally.

Yes, the last few weeks had been difficult for _Matty_.

His thoughts must have come through his expression somehow because Maria frowned and exchanged a look with her mother before speaking.

"Matty blamed himself when Papa was arrested," she said quietly. "We didn't know if he'd been captured or killed, but when we found out he was alive, Matty didn't relax at all. He tried to hide it, but I could tell he was mentally preparing to lose another father to Moreau."

Guilt for his previous unkind thoughts throbbed in Eliot's stomach. Of course that had been hard on Matty. In fact, Maria could have been describing his own feelings about Juan's arrest.

His gaze flicked briefly to Juan, and he was surprised to find that, although the man's eyes were still closed, his brow was furrowed deeply. Apparently he wasn't as asleep as they'd thought.

"And even though, through some miracle" — Maria crossed herself, and Eliot had never seen the action look so grateful — "we won, and no one died and everyone was safe, it was bittersweet. We've lost so many people getting here, and Matty more than anyone. You heard him talking to Parker about being an orphan. He has a family, he has Papa and Mama, but he still considers himself an orphan. He always wanted to be a general, like his father, but his promotion and setting up the new government today just remind him that his father and so many other people aren't around to see it."

The guilt thrummed again, stronger, but it didn't recede this time; it decided to make itself at home in the pit of Eliot's stomach. It was, however, joined by an unfamiliar sense of understanding. He'd thought that beating Moreau would fix everything for the Floreses, but apparently Matty's reaction to it all was just as complex as Eliot's own.

His gaze flicked to Juan, who looked almost anguished now: eyes squeezed tight, mouth in a deep frown, chest rising and falling more quickly than before.

"On top of all that," said Maria, "he's worried about me and the babies, and our marriage, and he hasn't seen Berto for longer than a few minutes at a time in weeks."

She placed a hand on his arm. "I know things haven't been much better for you lately, and it was obvious that Berto — that he helped you somehow, and I can't tell you how happy that makes me." She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "So don't think I don't know the importance of what you just did, for both of you. Thank you."

Dammit. First Mind Pete and now Maria. Why couldn't they just let him resent Matty in peace? It was easier that way.

"Cut it out," he growled. "I said I didn't like bedtime stories. I didn't dive on a grenade for him."

"You know better than anyone that most sacrifices aren't made on a battlefield," Juan said.

Both women turned to him sharply. Maria flushed; Anita merely looked annoyed.

"Faking sleep in order to eavesdrop, hmm?" she asked her husband.

"Not faking," Juan replied without opening his eyes. "Just dozing."

"Then perhaps that's our cue," Anita said. "Bedtime."

Juan blinked his eyes open. "But why? I'm not tired."

Eliot barked out a too-loud laugh, as much at Juan's answer as at the identical stern, disbelieving looks the man received from his wife and daughter.

The General's expression was stern. "You're supposed to be on my side, Commander."

"I am, sir. You need to sleep."

"Et tu?" Juan sighed. "I only have one meeting tomorrow." He sounded disappointed. "Michael pulled me aside and told me to take the next few days to rest. He said it was an order."

"Oh, no," said Anita, gently mocking. "He discovered your secret weakness."

Juan huffed, but it was good-natured.

"Come on." Anita stood, holding out her hands to help Juan up.

As he rose, Juan asked, "Can Uncle Eliot take me to bed?"

They all laughed.

"You're on your own, old man," Eliot said. "I only ever take beautiful women to bed."

"What a coincidence," Juan said, wrapping his arm around Anita. "So do I."

Anita smiled demurely and kissed him on the cheek.

Eliot looked away, feeling like a voyeur. The empty, lonely cavern in his chest gaped wide.

They said good night. Juan hugged Eliot for several long moments and added, "I'm so glad you're back, _mijo_."

Matty returned just as they were leaving. "Bed already? Wimp," he said with a shake of his head at Juan.

Without warning, Juan embraced him roughly.

Matty chuckled but returned the hug. "I'm going to see you tomor —"

He broke off, his laugh evaporating. Eliot couldn't see Juan's face, but he was clearly speaking into Matty's ear.

Juan was around Eliot's height, and of similar build; Matty was tall and lean, much more like Hardison. But, though he stood about a foot taller, Matty seemed to sink into Juan's arms like a child. He closed his eyes, nodded several times, and finally dropped his chin onto Juan's shoulder, grasping the older man like a lifeline.

Eliot knew how he felt. His talk with Juan that morning at the grave only seemed to have taken place weeks ago.

Juan might have been exhausted, but not where it mattered.

Matty pulled away with a thick, clipped, "Yes, sir."

Juan gave his cheek a gentle pat, as he had with Eliot earlier in the day, said one final, "Good night," and left with Anita.

.

.

.

Matty moved to the couch like a sleepwalker.

Maria waited a few beats before placing a hand on his arm. "You okay?"

That snapped Matty out of his daze. "What did you tell him?" He sounded more resigned than mad.

"I didn't — We thought he was asleep!" Maria protested.

Matty raised an eyebrow. "Really? You fell for the old, 'old guy pretends to be asleep' trick? He's not senile. He probably did it on purpose."

Eliot snorted. "That sounds like him, but not this time. He was falling asleep and just happened to hear something interesting."

"So how was Berto?" Maria asked, not-so-deftly changing the subject. "You were up there for less time than I expected, even as tired he was."

Matty settled back against the couch, submitting without argument to the subject change. Maybe he'd bring it up later when he had more energy — and less Eliot.

"He actually started to fall asleep while brushing his teeth." The tender smile that grew on Matty's face overflowed with fatherly affection. "I carried him to bed. He was out before we hit the hallway."

"It's been a long day," said Maria. "I'm sure you'll get a story in tomorrow."

Her tone was comforting and encouraging, but Matty seemed more than happy just to have held his sleeping son for a few steps down the hallway, put him to bed, and kissed him good night. It had never been about the stories; they were just an excuse.

The silence that fell over them stretched from pleasant to uncomfortable to awkward, and butterflies stirred in Eliot's belly. It was just the three of them now, and he was worried about the potential topics of conversation. They would take more energy than he had at the moment; he was tired, and he didn't trust himself to have a mature discussion right now.

Maria and Matty were exchanging glances, and that could only be bad for him. He debated getting up and going to bed.

No, going to bed would only postpone the inevitable. And it wasn't like he could sleep anyway. So he just sat, stomach fluttering.

It was, of course, Maria who broke the silence. She cleared her throat, but didn't speak for nearly a full minute after.

When she finally did, the words came haltingly. "Papa — Papa said that you … went to the grave today."

Eliot took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Of all the possible discussion topics, this was the one he felt least apprehensive about.

He nodded.

Maria took a deep breath of her own. Was she nervous? "Did you get the closure you needed?"

He thought of his conversation at the grave with Mind Pete — and there was no way in hell he'd be telling them about that, they'd think he was nuts — and how ever since, Mind Pete was no longer intruding on his thoughts, the memories weren't quite so vivid, and it didn't hurt as much to hear Pete's name.

"Yeah," he said. "I think I did."

Maria placed her hand on his. "I'm so glad, Eliot. It must have been difficult to deal with all that alone."

Matty didn't say anything; his mask was back up.

"Can I — ask you something?" Maria's voice shook. "About — about what happened?"

Matty looked at her and sat up a little straighter.

Eliot's heart started to pound; the butterflies in his stomach fluttered with renewed intensity.

He tried to keep his voice steady. "S-sure."

It didn't work.

Maria stared at her hands, blinking rapidly. "Was he in pain?"

The worst of the memories forced themselves to the front of his mind.

_Eliot's hands shook hard, making his movements rough — Pete's resultant cry of pain sliced through his heart like a knife._

_He lifted Pete's arm on the uninjured side and wrapped it around his shoulder. He reached across Pete's body and started to stand up when Pete yelped loudly in pain. "Don't!" he whimpered, tears in his eyes._

_Pete tried to laugh again but erupted into a violent coughing fit instead. He spat blood with each convulsion, and drops trickled down his chin._

_Pete tried to chuckle. Instead, the air caught in his throat, and he gasped for breaths that he couldn't catch again, and again, and again._

With an enormous effort, Eliot pushed the painful images away and focused on Maria, who was now speaking at lightning speed.

"I'm asking because when Berto was killed, the doctor said that since he was shot in the head he would have died instantly and probably wouldn't have even known what happened, and that was comforting for me and Mama. But when I talked to the doctor about Pete, he said it would have taken a little while for —" Her voice broke.

"Maria," Matty said softly. He held her hand with one of his; his other arm was wrapped around her. It was clear that he was concerned about her and nothing else. Like Eliot, he had seen far too many men die of wounds caused by armor-piercing rounds; he didn't need to hear the answer to Maria's question.

Maria sucked in a sob. "I was going to ask you about it after the wedding, when everything wasn't so fresh. It probably seems stupid, but he was my friend, and I want to know what his last moments were like."

The wave of guilt hit Eliot so hard he almost gagged. After Pete's death, he'd been so empty and angry in turns that he pushed everyone away, including Matty and Maria. He'd never told anyone exactly what had happened in the warehouse; he'd only given Juan a summary, and then he'd refused to speak of it — or scared everyone into not asking.

He, Matty, and Maria had been Pete's closest friends, and two of them had gone eight years without the closure of knowing his last moments. Sure, Eliot had grieved alone, but at least he'd known what he was grieving. Maria and Matty's intended best man went away one day and came back dead, and their replacement best man shut down and left without so much as a goodbye a week later.

It was a wonder they could stand to be in the same room with him. How could he have been so damned selfish?

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay," Maria continued quickly. "I just thought that —"

"Don't." The word came out hard and rough.

Maria started; Matty tensed and tightened his arm around her.

"I mean, it's okay." Eliot said. "It wasn't fair of me to keep that from you."

"He was your best friend," said Maria. "I can't imagine how —"

"That doesn't matter." Eliot bowed his head. "It was selfish. I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"I don't think that's the best idea," Matty said.

"I don't care what you think," Maria snapped. "He was my friend, too!"

Matty jerked away from her.

"_Eliot's right. Pete should be buried next to Sarah. I'm going, too."_

"_Like hell you are. I won't be responsible for bringing your body back, too, for Maria to cry over three days before her wedding."_

"_Dammit, Eliot! He's my friend too!"_

Matty's mouth formed a thin line, and Eliot wondered if they had both recalled the same moment.

Maria noticed. She gave Matty's hand a squeeze, caressing the back of it with her thumb. "I don't need you to protect me, Ramirez. I want to know what happened."

That fire was in her eyes again.

Matty laced his fingers in hers and put his other hand on top of their joined ones. "It's going to hurt, _mi amor_."

"I know that," Maria said. "But I have to know." She turned back to Eliot. "He was in pain, wasn't he?"

Eliot nodded, throat burning.

Maria's eyes filled with tears. "That's what the doctor said. Could he talk?"

Matty's jaw tightened, and his mouth formed that grim, thin line again. He drew his hand away from Maria's and leaned as far away from her as possible without actually moving. Eliot watched as his eyes grew distant and that brave soldier returned.

Eliot recognized all the signs because he'd done the same for eight years. But Maria, eager to hear the answer to her question, did not.

"Yes," Eliot answered her. "He had a lot to say."

"Did he make jokes?"

Eliot smiled, but it was bittersweet. "Yeah, he did."

And he told them. He started from the moment he and Pete had entered the warehouse and continued through every detail until the arrival of the medics. Maria only interrupted once.

"He didn't say that," she insisted.

"I swear," said Eliot, holding his hands up in surrender. "He said, 'Maybe they'll name a kid after me,' and he said it with a smirk."

Maria caressed her belly, smiling at Matty, who returned it weakly.

"Wait," Eliot said. "_Are _you going to name a kid after him?"

"Our lips are sealed," Maria said. "No one but us knows what the names will be, not even Mama, though she tries to trick me into telling her every day."

"Plus, they're not exactly decided yet," Matty muttered.

They refused to tell him any more.

They were good listeners. They laughed at Pete's other jokes, though the laughs became fewer and sadder. And when he had to stop several times during the telling, they waited patiently.

There was only one thing he left out: he couldn't bring himself to admit that he and Pete had heard Matty over the radio, or that Pete had begged him not to respond. He didn't even mention that Pete made him promise to get Matty to the wedding. He just made it sound like Pete had said he was sorry he couldn't make it to the wedding, and then the joke about the kids' names. Eliot wasn't sure how Matty would react, and he wanted to keep the focus on Pete, not on his and Matty's issues.

When he finished, they sat in silence for several minutes. Maria cried softly. Matty leaned back against the couch, staring into space.

Eliot was spent, too. His entire body felt like jelly, as though he'd just finished a fight. Or run a marathon. Or climbed Everest.

But the physical and emotional exhaustion, just like whenever he won a hard fight, was accompanied by elation. In this case, though, the feeling wasn't caused by endorphins, but due to a massive emotional release. (He mentally rolled his eyes as he imagined the fun Pete would have had with that double-entendre.) His conversations throughout the day with Mind Pete, Juan, the team, and Nate had all contributed, but this was the icing on the cake.

And all that was left was exhaustion.

He finally convinced his brain that bed would be more comfortable and stood up to leave.

"Why didn't you say goodbye?"

Matty's words stopped Eliot in his tracks, but the man hadn't moved. He just sat, arms folded, glaring at the coffee table like he was debating whether or not to beat it to a pulp.

Eliot lowered himself back into the chair.

No rest for the wicked.

.

.

.

"I said," Matty intoned, enunciating every word as he turned his death glare on Eliot. "Why didn't you say goodbye?"

Eliot had been preparing an actual explanation, including an apology, but Matty's impatient repetition threw it all out the window. "I didn't think you'd care."

Matty turned away so quickly that the words might have been a physical blow. His breaths became faster and more ragged.

"Is that really what you think?" Maria's tone was almost, but not quite, scolding. "Or is that what you've been telling yourself for eight years?"

Eliot remembered what Matty had said to him the day of Pete's funeral. _"Fuck you, Spencer."_ But he hadn't just spoken the words. He'd hurled them, drenched in loathing and anguish, and like so many knives, they'd pierced through Eliot's already tattered heart.

And then there was the morning of the wedding.

"_I'm — is there anything I can do?"_

"_You've done enough."_

"You hated me," Eliot said, voice thick with remembered pain. "You blamed me for what happened."

"No, I didn't," said Matty.

"Is that really what you think?" Maria asked him. The question was quieter this time, but no less intense. "Or is that what you've been telling yourself for eight years?"

Matty's eyes flickered to his wife, then back to the spot on the coffee table he seemed to despise.

"I did blame you, at first," he said after a pause. "But we talked the morning of the wedding, and I … I thought we were going to be okay then."

Eliot nearly choked. "We didn't talk the morning of the wedding. Not really." He tried and failed to contain his bitterness.

"You're right. We didn't," said Matty. "We hugged. And you said you were sorry."

Only then did the rest of the memory play out in Eliot's mind.

_Matty turned around and, staring at the carpet, made a beeline for the door._

_Eliot grabbed his arm. The other man's eyes snapped up, and Eliot saw only pain. Before Matty could do anything else, Eliot embraced him._

_Eliot expected Matty to hit him, or shove him, or at the very least pull away, but he did none of those things. Instead, Matty pulled him close and buried his face in Eliot's shoulder._

_Every beat of his heart was pure torment, and the nothingness in his chest threatened to overwhelm him. So he gripped Matty tighter and said, "I'm so sorry."_

_Matty sucked in a breath that was almost a sob. Eliot almost did, too, but he had a job to do._

_He cleared his throat. "Maria wants to see that dashing Ramirez smile. You're not going to disappoint her, are you?"_

Eliot blinked. He hadn't forgotten about that, but he'd thought it less important. Apparently Matty hadn't.

"That's when I realized," Matty said, "that we both missed Pete and we were both blaming you. And in spite of that, you made it your mission to make sure I smiled for Maria. I figured we'd talk about it after the wedding. If I had realized that was the last chance I was going to get, I would've —"

He kicked the coffee table hard, rattling the empty glasses sitting there. Thankfully, the bottle had been put away before Juan had gone to bed.

Matty wasn't even trying to hide the raw anger and pain anymore. It overflowed onto his face and into his voice. "You didn't say goodbye because you thought I hated you?"

Eliot sat stunned. He and Matty had both experienced the same conversation and taken away opposite messages. Eliot, of course, had focused on the negatives: missing Pete, Matty blaming him, loneliness and nothingness. But Matty had focused on the positives: understanding Eliot's guilt, seeing the opportunity for reconciliation, appreciating the gestures Eliot had made.

Fuck, if that wasn't a prime example of the difference between the two of them, he didn't know what was.

"I didn't say goodbye because I didn't want to ruin your wedding day," Eliot said. "The other crap just supported that decision."

"What gave you the right to make that executive decision?" Matty asked. "I thought things would finally be okay between us, and then we came back from our honeymoon and you were fucking gone! I'd already lost Berto and Pete and then you just up and left without a single fucking word."

"You're full of shit if you think things would ever have been okay between us. They were never okay, and they were never going to be. Pete had to play fucking referee. Did you honestly think with him gone things would have been better?"

Before Matty could respond, Maria gave a huge, exaggerated yawn. "Well, I'm exhausted. Long day setting up a new government and all." She heaved herself to her feet with a groan and moved toward the door. "Looks like you two are off to a great start. I'm off to bed. Try not to wake the house."

They both gaped at her. Eliot had forgotten she was there.

"I can tell things are about to get touchy-feely," she said, unruffled by the men's stares, "and I think we'd all prefer I not be here for that. But by all means, don't stop on my account."

Matty looked almost as dumbfounded and embarrassed as Eliot felt. He was glad Maria was leaving, but wished he'd been a bit more cognizant of her presence before he'd started blurting things out.

Maria paused when she reached the door, hand resting on the knob. She spoke with her back to them.

"This conversation has been a long time coming. Pete loved you both, and he used to tell me how much he wished you'd get along. So make this count. " She turned to face them. "If not for yourselves, at least do it for him?"

Then she swept out, the door clicking closed behind her.

.

.

.

"I hate when she does that," Matty grumbled.

"What, the guilt?" Eliot asked. "Maybe if you weren't so disgustingly Catholic, it wouldn't be so bad."

He was fully aware of the hypocrisy of the statement, considering Maria's guilt worked just as well on his wicked, non-Catholic ass.

Matty attempted a smile. They sat in stunned silence for a few more seconds.

"Fuck, I can't do this sober." Matty stood up suddenly and walked across the room. "You know what Pete would say if he was here right now?"

Eliot shrugged. "Fuck, you guys shouldn't do this sober?"

Matty's laugh had a slight nervous ring to it. "I was going to say, 'Quit moping and start drinking,' but that works, too." He crossed to the liquor cabinet/scotch bookshelf.

"Are you supposed to be mucking around in there?" Eliot asked.

Matty snorted and selected a bottle. "Please. Whenever we have scotch and cigars, he chooses the cigars. I pick the scotch."

"And you said you weren't his son." Eliot tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, and thought he succeeded. He'd been looking forward to scotch and cigars with Juan, but the older man's exhaustion had taken precedence. Maybe they'd get to it tomorrow.

If Matty heard the bitterness, he didn't show it, because he smiled to himself as he poured two generous helpings of scotch and a third, much smaller one.

"You're like him, you know," Eliot said when Matty handed him a glass.

"Who?"

"Juan. The way you talked to Parker at the airport … You have no idea how big of a deal it was for her to open up like that." Eliot frowned into his drink. "I never knew your dad, but I can tell you that right then, you were Juan Flores's son."

Matty reddened, suddenly very interested in his own scotch. "Thanks."

"Who's that for?" Eliot nodded at the third glass on the coffee table.

"Pete," Matty said.

Eliot swallowed painfully and cleared his throat to speak, but no words came, so he raised his glass in silence. Matty did the same.

Eliot took a large swig, but it didn't burn on the way down. The booze was damn smooth.

"Take it easy," Matty said. "This stuff's way too good to toss back like that."

"It's been a rough day. Week. Whatever," Eliot said, taking a second swig. Then, reconsidering, he downed the rest and poured himself another.

Matty by comparison, took an almost dainty sip, then glared at the glass like it was that spot on the coffee table. "Why am I the bad guy for wanting something more than bickering?"

Eliot sighed. Back to it.

"Enough with the martyr bullshit. You always resented me and my relationship with Juan and my friendship with Pete."

Matty's face reddened, though from embarrassment or anger, Eliot couldn't tell. Then Matty stood up and started to pace, and when he spoke, his voice was a few notches louder than normal. That put him firmly in the _angry_ column.

"Can you blame me, when I was always the third wheel, even on missions?" The words burst out of Matty, relishing their freedom after nearly a decade of imprisonment. "And then you decided that wasn't good enough, and you stopped including me altogether!"

"I didn't decide anything." Eliot's calm tone was a stark contrast to Matty's.

"Don't give me that crap —"

"Do you want to know why I benched you?"

"I would _love _to hear what sorry excuse you've got for me."

"Maria and Pete."

That shut Matty up. He blinked, his mouth working wordlessly for a few moments.

"Bullshit," he whispered.

Eliot gritted his teeth. "A few months before the wedding, Maria came to me and Pete —"

"I know." Matty's tone was derisive, as if Eliot were treating him like an idiot. Then he sighed and sat down, rubbing his face. "I know."

It was Eliot's turn to blink in surprise. "She told you?"

Matty nodded. "It was the second night of our honeymoon. We'd just settled in to sleep when I heard her crying. I thought it was my fault, that maybe I …"

He flushed, and Eliot understood. Matty might have dated a dozen girls in high school to try to get over Maria, and Maria might have had a boyfriend before Matty, but they were both devoutly Catholic, and so had "saved themselves" for marriage. Eliot remembered what it had been like when he and Amy had first … well, awkward and painful and embarrassing didn't even begin to cover it. If Maria had been upset, of course Matty would have blamed himself. Under any other circumstances, he probably would have been right.

Matty cleared his throat. "She broke down sobbing and told me it was her fault Pete had been killed because she'd begged you and him to make me sit out before the wedding. And she told me how she used Sarah to convince Pete to keep me safe."

Eliot clenched his fists. "If you knew, why did you —"

"Because you were the soldier!" Matty smacked the coffee table with his open hand. "But you saw a chance to stick it to me and took it, instead of doing what was right. You could have told her no!"

"Her, yes," Eliot said quietly. "But I could never say no to Pete."

He stared at the glass intended for Pete before raising his gaze to Matty.

"You think I wanted to bench you? We should have had our best men out there, and you were the best San Lorenzo had to offer. You don't bench your star quarterback when he's perfectly healthy. But she didn't come to me. She went to Pete. And I've never been angrier at her than I was that day, the way she manipulated him." Pete's pain burned fresh in his mind. "But it worked. Pete begged me. Said he couldn't let Maria lose you like he lost Sarah. How was I supposed to say no to that?"

His voice gave out at the end.

Matty said nothing. Just sat, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

"That's why I benched you that day," Eliot said. "And before he died, he made me promise to get you to the wedding, no matter what. That's why I couldn't let you go with me to bury him."

Matty raised his head, frowning.

"Trust me," said Eliot, "it would've been nice to have some company. I dug his grave and buried him myself." He dropped his gaze to his hands. His vision blurred at the memory of the blistering pain that couldn't block out the agony of his broken heart.

"Jesus, El." Eliot couldn't see him, but it sounded like Matty, too, was barely keeping it together.

Heh. Boy-crying.

"Wasn't — wasn't there someone who could do that?" Matty asked.

Eliot shook his head. "I wanted to. It was —" Something in his abdomen spasmed suddenly, and he sucked in a breath, a sobbing gasp. "I owed it to him. He pushed me out of the way. It was the least I could do."

"El." Matty shifted closer to him, into Maria's place on the couch, and his voice was almost a whisper. "It wasn't your fault. He made a choice."

"He shouldn't have had to." Eliot barely recognized his own voice, it was so small and childlike. "I should have known it was a trap. I should have told him and Maria no and brought you anyway."

He wiped his face roughly and met Matty's eyes, which were also filled with tears.

"You think I haven't spent the past eight years imagining what would have happened if you'd been there?" Eliot asked. "You're the tactician. You would have been able to get us out alive."

Matty sighed, and it was one of the heaviest, saddest sighs Eliot had ever heard. "I've imagined it, too. What I would have done. If I could have saved Pete. But I don't know that I could have. The cavalry only came because I was on the radio and not in the warehouse. Without that, I don't know what would have happened."

"I just can't help but think that if all three of us had been there, he might still be alive, and Berto would know his Uncle Pete."

"Or maybe all three of us would be dead now," said Matty. "Berto wouldn't even exist. Neither would the Leverage team. Moreau would still be hurting people, and Maria …" He looked away, but he didn't need to finish for Eliot to understand.

Maria would have ended up losing the love of her life not long before her wedding. Just like Pete.

"What ifs are pointless," Matty said when he'd gathered himself. "They don't help anyone."

He refilled their glasses and handed Eliot's to him. In silent, unintended unison, they raised them in the direction of the third, untouched glass before drinking.

Matty frowned at his scotch as though it tasted wrong. "So Pete made you promise to get me to the wedding. When he was dying." His tone tightened. "You must have forgotten to mention that part earlier."

Eliot's pause was enough of an answer.

"I see." Matty's hand clenched around the glass in his hand. "I thought you were going to be honest about this. What else did you leave out?"

Eliot bristled at the implication that withholding information was equivalent to lying. Of course sanctimonious Matty Ramirez would think that.

"I didn't lie to you."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Matty sneered. "Would you prefer the word 'con'?"

Eliot gritted his teeth. "That's not fair."

"No, what's not fair is that after everything that's happened, you're still keeping things from me," Matty snapped. "Is this how you are with the team? You must live a sad, lonely life. Only ever dealing in half-truths, never really letting anyone in."

Eliot tried to breathe, but it felt like a semi was sitting on his chest. How did Matty always know which knives to twist, and where?

He knocked back the rest of the scotch and slapped the glass down on the table. The alcohol burned his throat, but not enough. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself another generous serving.

Matty seemed to notice; his tone softened. "Please, El. What aren't you telling me?"

"If I told you," Eliot said quietly to his drink, "you'd hate me."

"Try me."

Eliot met Matty's gaze. Everything about him, from his tone to his posture, radiated understanding. He just wanted the truth — and all of it.

So Eliot took a deep breath, gripped his glass with both hands, and said, "We heard you. On the radio."

Matty inhaled sharply. "What?"

Eliot closed his eyes. He couldn't look at Matty while he told him.

"You called over the radio and asked if Pete was okay. I was going to respond, but he stopped me. He said if you knew he was hurt, you'd come to the warehouse, and we'd promised Maria …"

Tears threatened to escape, and he squeezed his eyes tighter.

"He used up the rest of his strength to beg me not to say anything, and he made me promise to get you to the wedding, no matter what. So I did. That's when he said, 'I don't want to go now,' and he —" His voice broke. "He was so scared."

Matty said nothing. He didn't move or make a sound.

After what seemed like ages, Eliot couldn't bear it anymore. "Please say something."

Matty's glass hit the table, though whether he intended to slam it or it slipped through his trembling fingers, Eliot wasn't sure. He flinched at the sound.

"You were right." Matty's words were dark and low. "I do hate you."

He got up and stalked to the door.

Eliot collapsed back against his chair. Why did he get his hopes up for a reconciliation? He always disappointed eventually.

But Matty stopped, hand on the door knob. Then he spun on his heel, crossed the room in two strides, grabbed a lamp from the table beside the sofa, and flung it across the room. It shattered against a bookshelf with a satisfying crash, shards of ceramic flying everywhere.

He punched the couch several times before hunching over the back, gripping it until his knuckles turned white.

Only when he stopped moving did Eliot realize his breaths were coming in ragged gasps.

He was sobbing.

Eliot gaped. Although Matty was usually a stoic, brave soldier, Eliot had seen him show emotion before, but usually in brief flashes of pain, grief, or anger, or else in passionate, often melodramatic, sometimes tearful declarations of love.

But this … Eliot had never seen Matty completely lose control. It was unsettling. Frightening.

It was heartbreaking.

Eliot wracked his brain for any of Sophie's teachings, but nothing came to him.

After an agonizing minute, Matty seemed to regain some control. He took several slow deep breaths.

When he finally spoke, his voice shook, not with the unsteadiness that came from crying, but with a rage that somehow disturbed Eliot more than his previous outburst.

"Sometimes." Matty took another couple of breaths. "Sometimes the anger and hatred are overwhelming." He released the back of the couch and clenched and unclenched his fists. "I can't see straight, feel like I need to throw up. Hit something. _Hurt_ someone."

"Because of me?" Eliot whispered.

"Because of them." Matty's face twisted with distaste, like he'd swallowed an entire lemon. "I _hate_ them. I hate them all for dying and abandoning me, and taking a little piece of me with them each time. I hate them for leaving me here to somehow try to pick up the pieces and go on."

Eliot's mouth fell open.

"I hate my dad for choosing his country over my mother and me and leaving us alone, so I fight longer and harder than he ever did to stay alive, and dozens of bullets and knives and close calls later, I'm too fucking stubborn to die. I hate my mom —"

Matty broke off in a sudden sob, but he continued. "She had a horrible childhood and suffered from depression the rest of her life because of it. My dad grounded her, but when he died, she relapsed. She didn't die the same day he did, but she might as well have. So I push the crap away and refuse to let what I'm feeling dictate anything I do."

He bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "I hate Berto because he was a fucking idiot. Escobar killed himself before we could find out what happened, but I can guess: Berto figured out he was dirty and tried to talk to him." He released the couch and ran his hands through his hair, pulling on it. "He probably just blurted it out, shocked that his fucking godfather would do such a thing, and Escobar got desperate and shot him." His eyes snapped open to glare at Eliot. "My brotherwas killed because he fucked up, and he fucked up because he was naive. So I consider every God-damned possible pessimistic outcome before I do anything.

"And Pete." Matty's lips curled into an almost cruel smile. "He was weak. He broke and couldn't even put himself back together, but he tried to tell me how to live my fucking life. He played at being a soldier and got himself fucking killed. So now I choose my people carefully and train them until they're the best, and I do everything in my power to keep them and their families safe because I refuse to lose people like we lost Pete."

Matty closed his eyes and grabbed the couch again, though he seemed to be leaning on it for support now, rather than attempting to strangle it. His face was screwed into a grotesque expression, a combination of exhaustion and disgust.

"But do you know who I hate most of all?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yourself," Eliot answered. "For hating them."

Matty let out a breath that could have been a sob, and nodded slowly. Though his eyes were still closed, a few tears escaped. "How fucked up is that?"

"It's not," Eliot said. His voice shook. "I hate Pete, too, sometimes. He saved my fucking life, and I hate him for it. For being an idiot and thinking I was deserving when I wasn't. I don't think I'll ever forgive him for that. But I hate myself more," he said quietly. "For not being able to save him."

"For not being good enough," said Matty. "Why weren't we good enough?"

Eliot didn't have an answer. That was his greatest fear. Not being good enough to protect the people he cared about. That's what had made this week, and all his time with the team, so hard. What if he wasn't good enough again?

Matty inhaled thickly through his nose. "But we don't hate them. Not really. My dad died for every one of the twenty-three men in his unit, and they all have families now because of him. My mom taught me the importance of family because she knew what it was like not to have one. Berto loved San Lorenzo more than anyone, even Juan, and he taught me to love it _because_ of its problems and struggles, not in spite of them." He wiped his cheeks roughly. "He would have been — he shouldhave been — the first freely elected president. He would have been great."

Matty frowned deeply, blinking several times in quick succession. "And Pete … he was the exact opposite of weak. Christ, if _I'd _come home at the age of seventeen and found Juan and Anita tortured and killed, and Maria —"

He broke off suddenly, bringing a hand to his face.

It was a long moment before he looked up, an emptiness in his eyes that Eliot had never seen before.

"I swear to God, El, I would have blown my damned brains out right there."

The desperation in his voice made Eliot's heart throb with every beat.

"But he didn't do that," Matty continued. "He came to us and fought for the suffering people of this country, and he somehow found the strength to crack jokes and be happy and be a friend."

Sort of. Juan's words echoed in Eliot's head.

"_He wanted to die, Eliot. He tried to kill himself."_

Matty finally walked around to sit down on the couch. "Sometimes it's just easier to hate and blame them or myself than to imagine that God is so cruel. He ripped so many good people from this world, from _me_, and didn't give me a chance to say goodbye to any of them."

Eliot's stomach sank like a stone.

"I could have said goodbye to him over the radio." Matty spoke the words in dull disbelief, staring at nothing. "I didn't even get to bury him."

"I'm sorry, Matty," Eliot said. "I should have —"

"Don't." Matty sniffed, wiped his nose roughly, and finished off his drink. "It fucking sucks, but I get it. If the roles were reversed, I would have done the same thing. For Pete."

Relief coursed through Eliot, escaping in a surprised, almost ecstatic gasp at the forgiveness he hadn't realized he so desperately needed.

"I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye," he said softly.

Matty, who was in the middle of pouring himself another drink, froze for just a moment. The liquid slopped a bit, but didn't spill. Then he put the bottle down and took a long, slow draught.

"I probably would have done that, too," he murmured. "What's that American saying about glass houses?"

The smirk he gave Eliot was weak but genuine.

Eliot blinked. He couldn't believe it.

Matty shrugged. "If you could do it over —"

"I'd have let you have the night," Eliot said immediately. "But I would have told both of you the next morning before you — I — before we left."

He'd given it a lot of thought since he'd seen how much that one choice had hurt Matty and Maria.

"Good enough for me," said Matty, handing him a fresh drink. He raised it in another silent toast to Pete.

Eliot didn't. Mind Pete had told him to ask.

"After Pete died, Juan said he'd tried to kill himself on the first anniversary."

Matty lowered the glass from his lips without drinking. "He never told you."

Eliot shook his head. "I don't know why."

"He was embarrassed."

"He told you," Eliot said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Matty winced. "I found him."

Eliot's stomach roiled, but he forced himself to ask, "How?"

It was clear the memory pained Matty. He took a swig of scotch before answering. "Bedsheets. Rigged them up to hang from the ceiling. He wasn't breathing, but he had a weak pulse. Doctors said we found him just in time."

"We?"

Matty nodded. "Berto dragged me to see him every day. To let him know he wasn't alone. I wanted to give him space, especially that day, but Berto insisted. He knew something was wrong. I have no idea how. He was just … good with people like that. Like Juan." He took another swig.

Eliot shook his head. "Why wouldn't Pete tell me?"

"He never talked about it. Ever. I think he was ashamed, like it was a moment of weakness he didn't want to think about. And he worshipped you, El."

Eliot bristled at that. "No, he didn't. We were friends. It wasn't hero-worship. We were …"

Weren't they?

"You were more than friends. You were the brother he never had." There was a sourness to Matty's words.

It was then that Eliot realized — no matter how this conversation had gone so or how it was going to end, no matter how much they patched things up, there would always be a layer of resentment and jealousy between him and Matty. It might not be fatal anymore, but almost a decade of latent … everything would never go away completely.

"He worshipped you like a kid worships his big brother," Matty continued, bitterness fading. "He wanted you to respect him. That's why he trained so damned hard. He wanted to impress you. It doesn't mean you weren't friends. He just didn't want to …" He looked at Eliot. "He didn't want to let you down, El."

_Pete swallowed. "Only ever wanted you to be proud of me."_

"_I am proud of you, Pete. I always have been."_

_Pete smiled, and the heaviness that had settled onto Eliot's chest, making it hard to breathe, lightened slightly. _

Of all the things he'd said to Pete that day, Eliot was happiest he'd said that.

Matty put down his glass with a _clink_, pulled out his wallet, and started clumsily fumbling through it. His frown grew deeper, as if he couldn't find what he was looking for, and he started to empty it onto the coffee table.

He took out several bills and a few coins of San Lorenzan currency, some credit cards, and then started on the photos. As Matty placed each one on the table, Eliot picked it up for a closer look.

The first was a candid shot of Matty, Maria, and Berto. Matty and Maria were sitting next to each other on a bench in front of a tree in what looked like the Floreses' garden. Berto sat in Maria's lap, giggling. Matty and Maria both looked at him with proud and loving smiles. The photo looked about a year old; Berto had been considerably chubbier then.

Eliot placed the picture back on the table and picked up the next one. It was an almost identical shot of Berto sitting in the lap of Matty and a woman Eliot didn't recognize. No — the man was older than Matty, but he had the same dashing smile. He wore a military uniform, and the woman looked like she'd stepped out of the late seventies or early eighties …

The child must have been Matty, sitting in the lap of his parents. Damn. Matty really did look like his father, and Berto looked so much like Matty had at that age it was uncanny.

Matty laid down a third photo, which Eliot picked up. This one showed a man who was definitely Matty, not much younger than when Eliot had first met him, in the green uniform of an enlisted San Lorenzo soldier. He stood, grinning, with his arm around an identically dressed young man whom Eliot immediately recognized as Berto Flores. The picture must have been taken the day they'd enlisted in the army.

Eliot had just opened his mouth to give Matty crap about the pictures when Matty shoved another one into his hand, and Eliot's voice died in his throat.

It was Pete's photo. The one he'd always kept with him, of him and Sarah laughing and happy. It was even more tattered and faded then Eliot remembered, but it was definitely the same picture.

Eliot had to force himself to breathe. "What — how —?"

"Maria."

"No." Eliot shook his head. It wasn't possible. "This was in his jacket." The jacket he'd used in a vain attempt to staunch Pete's wound.

"I know. She talked to the medics afterward, and somehow she convinced them to look for it. She got it cleaned up and gave it to me the morning of the wedding. Said she didn't care if it was bad luck to see me, because it was important." Matty swallowed. "She said, 'This way he can be here with you.'"

Eliot felt like he'd been gut-punched. "You had it? Why didn't you —?" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

Matty bowed his head. "Because I blamed you. I was angry. I thought, it was your fault he couldn't be there, so why should I share it?"

The words twisted into Eliot's heart like a knife.

"It was wrong," Matty said. "And I'm sorry."

The photo shook in Eliot's hand. It was wonderful to see Pete again — really him, not Mind Pete — even if the picture was from before Eliot had known him. Pete would have wanted to be remembered from a time when he was truly happy. Eliot had forgotten how exceptionally contagious Pete's smile was. He caught it, just from the photo.

"Don't." He shrugged, breaking out into a Pete smile. "I probably would have done the same thing."

Matty gave a relieved chuckle before he, too, came down with the highly infectious Pete smile.

Eliot couldn't stop staring at the photo. "You had this on you during the wedding?"

"In my jacket pocket."

Where Pete always kept it. "So he was there. With Sarah."

Matty nodded. Eliot's Pete smile remained, in spite of the tears that blurred the faces in the picture.

"He would have liked that," he said. "So you've been carrying it around for eight years?"

Matty shook his head. "Not long after we got back from the honeymoon, Maria made a few copies of it. I keep one in my wallet. That one usually sits over there." He pointed to an empty photo frame on the mantle. "But I decided to carry it with me yesterday. Not sure why. Luck, maybe."

Eliot laughed.

Matty scowled. "I know, it's stupid. You don't have to be a dick about it."

"No, it's just —"

His laughter grew slightly hysterical. Matty's face reddened, and his jaw clenched.

Eliot pulled himself together enough to say, "I just thought about what Pete would say about you carrying it for luck."

Matty's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Eliot screwed his face into his best impression of a classic Pete look — head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly, face deadpan, eyes that said, _You're kidding, right? _— and said in a flat tone, "Great lucky charm. Did wonders for me."

True to his Pete impression, he couldn't keep up his poker face, and another laugh burst out of him as he finished. This time Matty joined in. The exhaustion and booze finally hit them. Slap-happy and more than a little drunk, they roared with laughter, which ebbed and flowed and ebbed again until their sides ached and they gasped for air like they were drowning.

The joke wasn't that funny, but damn, it felt good to laugh, and it felt right to laugh like that with Matty. That was something they'd never done before, but Pete would have wanted it this way.

When their laughter finally died away, they collapsed against the back of their seats, panting, riding out the aftershock chuckles. After a minute, Matty said, still grinning, "He'd want you to have it."

That knocked the laugh right out of Eliot. He drop the photo onto the table like it had burned him, shaking his head over and over. "No. No, I can't. My life … it's too dangerous. I don't keep things in case I have to blow town."

That was how Sterling had caught Nate in Boston last year.

Matty's smile was gone now, too, and his eyebrows couldn't seem to decide whether to knit together or shoot up and away from each other. "That's …" The frown finally won out, and his brow furrowed deeply. "That's awful. Don't you have photos?"

He had a few, but none were so fragile or important. "It should be here, in a place of honor, where it can be safe."

"He'd have wanted you to have it, El. You were his best friend."

"We were both his best friends," Eliot corrected automatically. It had long ago become a reflex in order to calm Matty's doubts, assuage Pete's guilt, and tamper his own resentment.

Matty shook his head. "No, he was just my friend. He was the closest friend I had after Berto was killed, but he wasn't my best friend, and I wasn't his. Berto was mine. You were his."

Eliot reached over to pick up the photo again, and this time a surge of sadness shot through him. Poor Matty. He'd lost his best friend.

Then again, so had Eliot.

"_You do know why you guys have never gotten along, right?"_ Mind Pete had asked. _"Because you're exactly the same."_

The same guilt, the same loneliness, the same simultaneous love and hate for the friends they'd lost.

"Nope, none of that," Matty said, pouring them both generous helpings of scotch. He emptied the bottle with a flourish. "Quit moping, keep drinking. I married Maria. She's my best friend now."

"She's a lot like Berto, isn't she?"

"And Hardison's like Pete." Matty handed him the refill. "A lot like Pete. So is Parker, in a way."

"They all are." Eliot shook his head. "And I only just realized it today."

Matty laughed. "You were probably just in denial. How long did it take you to admit that you actually liked Pete and didn't find him annoying?"

"Less time than it did with the team."

"So you're actually getting worse at this?" Matty's eyes twinkled. "Pete would give you so much shit about that. But he would have loved them. They'd probably all join in." He nodded at the photo. "He'd want you to have it. Find a safe place for it because I've kept it long enough."

Eliot's heart ached as he stared at the photo. Then he nodded.

"He died saving us both that day, didn't he?" Matty's voice cracked. "God, he was a good friend."

Eliot grinned, propping the photo up against the third, untouched glass. "Damn right, he was." He raised his drink. "To Pete."

.

.

.

So they drank. And for the first time in their entire acquaintance, they had a real conversation. Not an argument, or a forced interaction laced with awkward pauses; not a terse exchange on the topic of Pete or Maria or Juan filled with undercurrents of resentment; but a real, honest-to-goodness conversation between two people who wanted to be there.

Eliot told Matty how he'd joined up with the team during that first job for Dubenich, explained a few of the jobs they'd done as a team, and talked about each member and their strengths and weaknesses and most lovable parts. Matty told Eliot about all the things he'd missed, and not just the big Moreau-related events like Ribera's election; he talked about the private things, big and small, like finding out Maria was pregnant, Berto's birth, Juan's retirement.

He told Eliot about all the people they had served with — some had retired, like Juan; others had been killed, like Pete; some were still around, fighting the good fight, either on the military side like Matty or the political side like Juan and Maria. And some were new, like Matty's second-in-command, Lia Delgado, whom Eliot had known as Lia Morales, Maria's maid-of-honor who had tried to sleep with him the night of the wedding. He hardly believed the type of trailblazing woman that she'd become, but it suited her.

Eliot insisted that Matty tell him in detail about the times he'd been injured, including the infamous Ribera shooting. That had been the worst, but Matty had, as he'd said, dozens of scars to show for eight years' worth of fighting.

Eliot sighed. "I should have kept better tabs. I wish I'd known."

"I don't," Matty said. "You wouldn't have been able to do anything except lecture me, and I sat through too many of those as it was."

Eliot's heart pounded, but he'd been challenged by both Maria and Mind Pete to have a real talk with Matty. And he could never say no to Pete, not even when Pete was just in his head.

He took a slow, deep breath, but the only way he could make the words come out was to speak them to the floor.

"When I talked with Juan after Pete was killed, he told me that Pete died saving someone he cared about, and that there's no more honorable death than that. But I think Juan's wrong." He could have sworn he actually heard Matty frown. "There is something more honorable, and that's dying, or risking your life, for someone you hate. Especially when it's instinctual. There's no reward for that. It takes a special type of person to have that kind of courage." He looked up to find Matty staring at him, wide-eyed. "I'm not going to lecture you, Matty. I might call you an idiot, but you're the most honorable idiot I've ever known."

Matty sat in stunned silence for several moments. Eliot refilled both their drinks from the recently opened second bottle of scotch, which tasted even better than the first one. Matty reached for his glass a stupor.

Eliot raised his. "To idiots."

Matty met Eliot's gaze. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. The succinct nod he gave in response to Eliot's toast, the way his hand shook slightly as he downed the scotch in one go, the roughness with which he wiped his eyes after leaning his head back against the couch for a moment said it all.

But it was the brightness of his genuine, dashing smile a minute later that told Eliot that things might be different now.

"Want to watch while I kick your ass at chess?"

Eliot sighed. And some things would remain exactly the same.

.

.

.

Matty was oddly reticent for a long time after that exchange, even after they broke out the chess board and he'd beaten Eliot's ass a few times. After a particularly brutal victory, Matty stared forlornly into his drink as though it hadbeen he who'd had lost in fewer than ten moves.

"You should talk about it," Matty said finally, without raising his gaze.

"About what?" They were drunk enough by that point — and, more importantly, had already discussed every dreaded potential topic — that Eliot was no longer nervous about anything that might come up. He was resetting the chess board and mentally preparing for another loss.

"About killing Chapman."

The sudden jerk of Eliot's hand upset the board. Chess pieces clattered to the table, but even their muted landings on the carpet were deafening in the silence that followed.

Eliot stared at a black knight that had rolled to a rest against his foot. He didn't trust himself to do anything else.

Matty sat, still and silent.

"Juan told you?" Eliot asked eventually. His voice came out quiet, but surprisingly steady.

Matty clucked disapprovingly and leaned back against his couch. "You should know better than that. Juan would never divulge anything someone told him in confidence."

Eliot's stomach clenched at the rebuke. Of course he knew that, but he couldn't imagine how Matty could know about —

"Give me a little credit," Matty interrupted his thoughts as though he'd spoken them aloud. "Moreau's been abroad for years. Then out of the blue, he's at the top of every country's most wanted list and comes scampering back here, alone. A few days later you call Juan and tell him you're coming back after eight years because your new team is going to take down Moreau. It's not rocket science."

Eliot rolled the black knight back and forth across the carpet with the toe of his shoe.

"My people did some digging," Matty continued, "to try and figure out what happened, because we sure as hell weren't behind it. Apparently there was an explosion at a warehouse in D.C. Fourteen dead. FBI and Interpol listed several of them as known associates of Damien Moreau, including one, known to be Moreau's Head of Security, who went by the alias Chapman. No current suspects. That's where the trail ended." His voice dropped to a murmur. "But I knew better."

Eliot stepped on the black knight, squishing it like a bug.

"Not to mention," Matty said, voice tight but back to a normal volume. "You've been exhibiting some very distinctive symptoms. Trouble falling or staying asleep. Hyper-vigilance. Intrusive recollection, including reliving the traumatic event. Feelings of detachment or estrangement from others."

Matty softened the sharp, sterile definition of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with the gentle, knowing assurance of a survivor.

"The gunshots triggered it yesterday," Matty pressed on. "That's why your reaction to Sophie's assassination was so …" He trailed off, as though looking for a kind word, but not finding anything more gentle than, "realistic. It's why you couldn't relax at the party." He paused. "Why you wanted to leave the team."

Eliot's vision, focused on his shoe grinding the black knight into the carpet, blurred.

"Do they know?"

"Nate," was all Eliot choked out.

"Which is why things were so weird between you two." Matty seemed to sigh the sentence, putting two-and-two together. "You talked about it before he left?"

Eliot nodded.

"Do I need to give him a call?" Matty's tone could have given penguins frostbite.

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but the edges of his mouth quirked a fraction of a degree in the positive direction. Matty going to bat for him was something new.

"It helps," Matty said. "To talk. I know it's the last thing you want to do right now, but it does."

Eliot heard movement, and opened his eyes to see Matty bending over, picking up the chess pieces that had fallen. Eliot lifted his foot and kicked the black knight away.

Matty set up the board again. The black knight was the last piece he placed. He watched with a frown as Eliot stared at it.

"Do you remember what it feels like?" Eliot asked, unable to look away from that damned black knight.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Matty's face darken. "I wish I could forget."

"Tell me." He could barely hear his own whisper.

Matty inhaled sharply, and the sound physically hurt Eliot. He knew how much it would pain Matty, but he wanted — he needed — to hear it come from that crazy, honorable idiot.

"Please," he begged.

Matty picked up his newly refilled drink and downed its entire contents in several long, deep gulps. He grimaced as the alcohol went down, returning the glass to the table with a heavy _clunk_. Then he picked up the black knight.

"I always expect it to feel different, but it's the same every time." He rolled the knight between his fingers. "It happens so damned fast, before I even have time to think. Instinct." He snapped the fingers of his other hand. "And for one awful second, it feels … good." He spat the word like he was expelling a poison. "Like a victory. Him or me. And I won." His hand closed into a tight fist around the black piece. "And in the next second, reality sets in and there's this gaping hole in my chest because I just killed a person. And a part of me with them."

He opened his hand let the black knight roll onto the board with a clatter.

Eliot's breaths came a little faster as relief coursed through him. Even Matty felt that little rush afterward. In the back of his mind, he'd worried that maybe Juan had been bending the truth by saying it was the adrenaline, in an effort to get him back on his feet. But if Matty felt it, maybe he wasn't as much of a monster as he thought.

As much.

"It's just you and me, El." Matty was watching him with immense concern, and again Eliot saw just how much he was Juan Flores's son. "I'm not a general right now, or a cop, or anyone who could arrest you. Just a friend. You can talk to me." Then he added, in a rasp that betrayed his emotions, "You can pretend I'm Pete, if that would help."

That was what made it possible for Eliot to speak. He didn't need to pretend Matty was Pete; it was the fact that Matty had offered it, something that was at the same time ridiculous and serious and painful for them both.

And the fact that he, Matty Ramirez, had called himself Eliot's _friend_, without a trace of sarcasm or irony.

"I killed them," Eliot whispered, glaring at the fallen black knight. Three simple words, and they drew real tears, which rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin onto his clasped hands.

"What happened?" asked Matty. No judgment or horror or pity. Just a question.

"It was a fucking trap." Eliot clenched his fists so tightly his fingernails started to dig into his palms. "I tried to get us into the auction as myself escorting a client. Moreau said he'd give me the location of the auction if I killed one of his associates. We faked it, and he gave us the info. But it was a God-damned trap."

"An ambush in the warehouse." This wasn't a question. Matty had been fighting Moreau long enough to know.

Eliot nodded. "Me and Nate and that Italian woman. I had to get Nate out, and the woman said she could take down Moreau with the information she had, so I told them to run and I —" His stomach lurched, but he took a deep breath and spoke as quickly and matter-of-factly as he could. "I broke the neck of one of them, took his gun, and killed them all. Then I blew up the warehouse."

Matty didn't speak for a few moments, then said, "Chapman?"

"I shot him four times in the chest from ten feet away."

Again Matty waited before speaking. "You were ambushed. Sounds like self-defense to me."

"You should know that doesn't change anything," Eliot snapped.

Matty shrugged. "I know why it doesn't for me. Why doesn't it for you?"

"Because … I'm not that man anymore." Those words still sounded wrong, but after his conversation with Juan, he had promised himself to repeat them until they didn't.

"I don't think anyone who knew you back then would say you were," said Matty.

"Moreau did." Eliot winced at the memory.

"_You know as well as I do that you've just sold your soul to a different devil."_

"Moreau was trying to get inside your head," Matty said firmly. "If he didn't think you were different, he wouldn't have tried to convince you otherwise."

Eliot blinked. He hadn't thought about it that way before, but Matty was right.

"And the mere fact that you're feeling this way, even about killing Chapman, should be proof enough." Matty's jaw clenched, and a loathing burned in his eyes. "You have no idea the types of things that sick fuck did after you left. He was even worse than before. The things we saw …" He looked away. "I won't lose any sleep over him."

"You would if you'd been the one to kill him."

"Yes." Matty nodded slowly. "But El, this is how it's supposed to feel. It's supposed to make you feel like shit and give you horrific nightmares. You're supposed to second-guess yourself and think that there had to be a better way, and you're supposed to hate yourself because for just one second you liked it. If you didn't feel like that … _then_ you'd still be the Rottweiler."

He watched Eliot stare at the fallen black knight.

"That's pretty much what Juan said," Eliot muttered.

"Oh," Matty said softly. "Sorry."

Eliot looked up, frowning. "Why?"

Matty shrugged and looked away. "If you already went through this, seems kind of dickish to make you do it again."

"We talked, but I didn't — Nate told Juan, so I never actually …"

"Said it out loud," Matty finished. "It helps. It stops feeling like a deep dark secret when you talk about it."

Eliot nodded. Matty was right about that. He already felt lighter. He might actually be able to get a few hours of sleep tonight.

"It never gets easier to do," Matty said. "But it does get easier to bear. With time." He picked up the black knight and returned it to its place on the board. "And stop trying to make this thing some sort of symbol of your inner darkness. It's just a painted piece of wood. If you're any game piece, it's probably one of those Rock'em Sock'em Robots."

Eliot laughed. That was something Pete would have said. He poured them both fresh scotch and raised his glass to Matty.

Matty raised his, too, and they both drank.

"Come on." Matty nodded to Eliot's side of the board. "White goes first."

.

.

.

It went on like that — chess and scotch and memories and scotch and laughs and more scotch — for hours. They opened a third bottle. It wasn't until Maria came in that Eliot noticed the light outside the windows.

They'd just poured themselves fresh drinks, toasted Pete, laughed at some hilarious memory, and Matty had just declared check, when the door opened.

"Matty?" Maria was wearing a tired, worried look and a robe that just barely covered her big belly.

"Hey, babe," Matty slurred over his shoulder. "Up in a sec. 'M just about to kick El's ass again."

Maria blinked. "It's six. My alarm just went off. Did you two sleep at all?"

Eliot and Matty looked at each other.

"Oops," Eliot said.

They both burst into laughter, falling back onto their respective couches.

They'd had a lot to drink.

"What in God's name … ?" Maria started. When she walked into the room and took in the full scene of chess board, broken lamp, empty bottles, and boozed-up boys, her jaw dropped. "You stayed up all night and finished three bottles of booze?"

"Two-and-a-half," Matty corrected.

"Hey, that's my line!" said Eliot, and they both collapsed into laughter again.

"Oh my God," Maria said, shaking her head. Her gaze settled on Pete's photo, propped up against the still full third glass. She took in a slow breath. "Is that —?"

"For Pete," Eliot and Matty said at the same time. They both raised their own glasses to Pete, when Maria picked up the third one and prepared to drink it.

"Don't!" Eliot slurred, trying to grab it from her hand. She held it out of reach, and he fell over onto the couch.

"'S not yours." Matty's scolding tone was undercut by his inability to form words correctly. And his giggle at Eliot's pratfall. "'S Pete's."

Maria raised her eyebrows at the two of them. "You two stayed up all night drinking … to Pete?"

Eliot nodded, but stopped when his head started to spin.

Maria looked at the glass she held in her hand, then at Eliot and Matty. Her voice was a little raspy. "I'd like to drink to him, too. I don't think he'd mind sharing, do you?"

Eliot and Matty didn't say anything. Of course Pete wouldn't have minded.

"To Pete," Maria said with a smile, raising her glass. "Who would grin like a fool if he could see you two right now."

"To Pete," Eliot and Matty replied, and they all drank.

"Hey. Maria." Matty face was very serious. "I am inebriated."

Maria covered her mouth with a hand, but a giggle got out anyway. "I can see that. You do know we have a cabinet meeting in two hours, right?"

Matty waved a hand. "I'm fine." He stood — it took him two tries, and which caused Eliot to burst out laughing again — and pulled his wife close. "Two hours is plenty of time for us to go upstairs, get in the shower, and have some long, hot, we-just-saved-the-country sex."

Maria rolled her eyes. "How do you expect to do that when you can't even stand?"

Matty tilted his head and brought his arms up in a shrug. "Skip the shower?"

Eliot laughed. "Great idea, Ramirez. Only been general for two days and you're gonna get yourself court-martialed for showin' up drunk and smellin' like booze, and late because you were too busy bangin' your super pregnant wife." He frowned. "How does that even work, anyway? She's like …" He couldn't find the word he wanted, so he stretched his arms into a large circle that got his point across.

For some reason, Maria's eyes got a little scary.

"He's kinda right," Matty said, and she turned her scary eyes on him. "But it's not that hard, El. You just gotta get creative." He turned Maria around to demonstrate. "You know, come from behind, and —"

"You might be drunk enough for this conversation, Ramirez," Maria said, covering her red face with her hands. "But I am most definitely not." She took a few breaths then said, "Berto wet the bed last night. I already changed him, but I need you to change the sheets and then go take a very cold shower and try to sober up for work while I make him breakfast."

Matty threw his head back like Parker did when she didn't want to do things. "Why do I always have to change the sheets? And anyway, I bet Uncle Eliot makes a mean breakfast. Why don't we just go upstairs and —"

He kissed her neck, which seemed to be some sort of sweet spot, because Maria melted a little.

"Matty," she said weakly. "Berto."

Matty put a finger to her lips, gazing into her eyes for a few seconds. He blinked a few times, and his voice thick. "_Te amo, mi amor_."

Maria's eyes filled with tears, and she pulled him into a long kiss.

Eliot looked away. Watching them made that emptiness swell in his chest again, and though he knew it was probably because of the alcohol, that didn't make it hurt any less.

"Get a room," he growled.

Maria pulled away, looking a little ashamed, but Matty heaved a very heavy sigh and threw his head back again.

Eliot stood, only a bit wobbly, and made a shooing motion. "Go. You two obviously need to get laid. Sex, shower, sober up. I'll make the kid breakfast."

Matty grinned, gave Eliot a horrible salute, and stumbled to the door, pulling his wife.

"He'll only eat Choco O's," Maria said over her shoulder, "and he hates —"

But Eliot didn't hear what Berto hated because Maria was already halfway down the hallway.

He chuckled and picked up Pete's photo from the coffee table. He'd definitely be making a copy that he could carry with him, and this one would go somewhere he knew it would be safe, like a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank.

What would Pete say if he saw Eliot and Matty now? Would he be happy for them? Proud? Things were going to be better now. Not perfect, because eight years of buried crap would never really go away, but better. At some point, they'd become friends. Pete would have loved that. Eliot's chest swelled, not with that aching emptiness, but with a happiness he hadn't felt in a long time when thinking about Pete.

He shook his head and gingerly placed the photo in his wallet. Pete would probably tell him to cut it out and go make breakfast for his hungry nephew.

He grinned. No nephew of his was going to eat cereal for breakfast. He'd mostly trained Parker to eat real food, and she'd had decades of habits to break. Berto was three. How hard could it be?


	30. Chapter 30

_Well, this is it. The end. I planned to make this an epilogue, but as I was writing it I realized it was really the final course rather than dessert, so it's Chapter 30 (which makes my OCD heart go all aflutter)._

_Thank you to those of you who have stuck with me for the past year and half(!) of this story. I'm not sure how many of you are still out there, but judging by the reviews there's at least a few! You've kept me going and determined to finish. __This was the first real anything I started writing, and I have learned so much from it. Thank you for reading and reviewing and letting me know that I don't suck at it!_

_So many, many thousands of thanks to Valawenel, who pushed me to write in the first place and has been nothing short of encouraging (and is a fantastic brainstorming soundboard), and quirkapotamus, whose fantastically intense betas are responsible for my writing improving by leaps and bounds from Chapter 1 to Chapter 30._

_(Speaking of quirkapotamus: We plan to cowrite a story about Nate and Sophie's wedding, titled _The Second Wedding Job_ — get it? But it takes place after her story _The French Kiss Job_, an amazing story which she hasn't quite finished yet. Do me a solid and go over there, read and review, and encourage her to finish!)_

_Thank you again for everything. This has been a wonderful experience, and it's not an overstatement to say that it's changed my life. Writing is a major hobby for me now, and I'm even plotting an original novel! Your encouragement has meant everything._

_And now, without further ado, the final chapter._

* * *

"But I don't wanna go to bed!" Berto Ramirez flung himself dramatically to the floor of the family room, literally kicking and screaming, in a truly impressive tantrum.

Eliot gaped. He looked around the room; no one else seemed to think this was odd. Juan made himself busy with pouring another scotch, although Anita had warned him against having more before she'd gone to bed not fifteen minutes earlier.

Matty, mouth in a thin line, crossed his arms, thoroughly unimpressed. "Cut it out, Berto. It's past your bedtime."

Eliot noticed that Matty's Stern Dad Voice sounded eerily similar to the voice he used when giving orders to his men. He wondered how Maria felt about that.

"But I'm not tired!" Berto whined.

"I know you're not. That's because Uncle Eliot gave you cookies. And candy. And ice cream."

"And cake," Berto added in a whimper.

"Yes, how could I forget that?" Matty lifted an eyebrow the tiniest amount; the dark circles under his eyes implied he wasn't capable of much more.

Eliot gave an unapologetic shrug. "Was I supposed to say no?"

Berto's eyes widened in horror at such a suggestion. Matty leveled a devastating glare at Eliot — or tried to. It died on its way across the room; he was far too tired for anything stronger.

Eliot did feel the need to apologize for that. Matty hadn't slept in seventy-two hours, and that was his fault.

Well, mostly. Part of it was Maria's fault.

After their night of talks and toasting Pete, Eliot had made breakfast for Berto — his drunken optimism had been crushed by the toddler's stubborn and whining insistence on eating Choco O's, and only Choco O's, even from Uncle Eliot — and then crashed, sleeping off the booze for most of the day. Matty, however, had disappeared upstairs with Maria and reappeared an hour and a half later, showered, "refreshed" — Eliot mentally added the quotes, since it was obvious where his newfound energy had come from — grinning like a fool, and hardly slurring his words at all. He'd worked all day on zero sleep, and had looked more than ready to collapse into bed after dinner that night when Maria gasped.

"Matty," she said, panting. "My water just broke."

Matty paled for a nanosecond before summoning his brave soldier face. "Okay, don't panic," he said, though he sounded like he was assuring himself more than Maria. "We've done this before, we'll be fine. Just —"

"I swear to god, Ramirez," Maria snarled through a contraction. "If you tell me to 'Be a good soldier,' I _will_ punch you in the face."

"Again," Juan muttered to Eliot. "He got a nasty black eye last time."

So Matty had spent the entirety of the previous night at the hospital with Maria during her nine hours of labor. He'd come home to tell them all the news — mom and babies happy and healthy — before going back to work until picking them up to visit Maria and the twins that afternoon.

And now, thanks to Eliot, he was fighting with a three-year-old on a sugar high. Eliot decided to make it up to him by forcing him to sleep all day tomorrow, which was, thankfully, Saturday.

Matty and Berto were arguing in Spanish now. Eliot wondered briefly who had made the switch; Matty usually only shouted obscenities in Spanish.

"Dammit, Berto, this isn't up for debate!" Matty yelled in English. "Get your ass upstairs and into your pajamas."

Berto's tantrum ceased in an instant; the only evidence that he'd been upset were a few crocodile tears running down his cheeks.

"Mama says that's a bad word." He actually crossed his pudgy little arms and scowled.

Matty took an almost identical stance. Eliot bit his lip to keep from laughing at the showdown.

"You know what else Mama said?" Matty asked. "She said you were supposed to be good for Papa. So you tell her what I did, I'll tell her what you did, and we'll see who comes out on top."

"But I wanna play with Uncle Eliot!" Berto's whine reached ear-piercing levels as he changed tactics, launching himself at Eliot's knees.

Eliot winced at the sound, but he couldn't help a smile; he had a soft spot for the kid.

"Hey," he said, lifting the boy's chin. "What color is … this?" He pulled a card from his pocket, on which he'd colored a square in red marker. They'd been practicing with it all day.

"Red!" Berto chirped.

"And this?" Eliot pulled out a second card, which had a blue square on it.

"Blue!"

"Nice! High-five!"

Berto grinned, slapping Eliot's extended hand.

"We'll show that to your mom tomorrow."

Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot saw Matty tense; his brave soldier face was up.

Eliot's own excitement deflated. He and Matty were on much better footing after their drunken talk, but there were still moments of tension between them — comments at dinner a bit too sharp to be civil, cheerful tones that rang just a little false, strained silences that said more than either. They might have been friends, and their friendship might have been built on a more solid foundation than before, but things would never be perfect. There would always be sensitive topics and points of contention.

One of those points of contention was Berto. "_Tío_ Eliot" was his new favorite person, and because Matty worked during the day and had been at the hospital the previous night, _Tío_ Eliot had spent more time with Matty's son in the past seventy-two hours than Matty had. Of course he was upset about that. And Eliot had promised himself he would make a concerted effort in his relationship with Matty. It was the least he could do for Pete — and himself.

So he swallowed his pride and said, "Hey, Berto, remember what we talked about today? About your dad?"

Matty frowned at Berto's eager nod.

"He's a general now!" the toddler said, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. "Like _Abuelo _Flores and _Abuelo _Ramirez!"

Brave soldier face or not, Matty couldn't hide just a hint of pride as his the corners of his mouth quirked up.

"That's right," said Eliot. "And what do we do when generals are around?"

"We salute!" Berto turned and gave his father what had to have been the most adorable, if not entirely regulation, San Lorenzan salute ever.

Matty's brave soldier face slipped another notch; his eyes softened and crinkled at the edges.

"And?" Eliot prompted.

Berto looked at his feet and said dejectedly, "We follow orders."

"Why?" Eliot asked.

"Because generals are heroes." At that, Berto spun and ran to Matty, who crouched to receive him, and threw his little arms around his father's neck. "_Te amo, Papa._"

Matty's brave soldier face melted away, and he smiled. "_Te amo, mijo_." He held his son for a few moments, then cleared his throat. "Now, go get your pajamas on."

"Yes, sir!" said Berto with another adorable salute. He ran from the room.

Matty rose, smiling after him for a moment before turning back to Eliot and put his hands in his pockets thoughtfully. "You teach him all that?"

"Most of it," Eliot said. "Though the answer was supposed to be, 'because that's how the army works,' not that crap about heroes."

Matty snorted. "He probably got that from Maria. I don't like that word."

"Me, either," Eliot agreed.

"The true heroes usually don't," said Juan from his spot in the corner.

Matty gave Juan a flat look and very nearly rolled his eyes, though Eliot wasn't sure if it was respect or exhaustion that held him back. If he'd seen Juan every day for the past eight years and been currently running on no sleep, perhaps he'd roll his eyes at one of those annoyingly-timed inspirational comments, too.

But to Eliot, the remark seemed particularly paradoxical coming from Juan.

"And you, sir?" he asked. "Do you consider yourself a hero?"

Matty stood up a little straighter, eyes flicking eagerly between Eliot and Juan.

Although Juan clearly hadn't been expecting it, the question didn't catch him off-guard. On the contrary, he smiled at Eliot like a teacher whose favorite student had just posed a fascinating discussion topic.

"I joined the military and the San Lorenzo Independence Movement at a time when the two were considered mutually exclusive. After becoming embroiled in a series of heavily publicized events —"

"Did one of those happen to be being arrested by Anita's brother?" Eliot asked.

Matty smirked.

Juan paused for a patient second, then resumed speaking as though he hadn't been interrupted. "— the media and large sections of the country in general dubbed me a hero to the cause. It took me years to understand that the people who did so didn't do it for me. They did it for them. A hero gives people someone to believe in, which is far more integral to winning a war than guns or money or soldiers. So while I've never truly identified with the term, I long ago accepted it as a part of the image others have of me."

"So, no," Matty said. "You don't consider yourself a hero."

"Which, by your logic, means you really are one," added Eliot.

"Busted." Matty's eyes twinkled. "You have no room to talk."

Juan shook his head with a chuckle, but Eliot thought he saw the slightest tinge of pink in his cheeks.

"Papa?"

Berto had reappeared in the same clothes he'd been wearing when he left.

Matty turned, still grinning from the exchange, but at the sight of his son, his eyes widened to an almost comical size. He jumped back as though he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing and swore severely in Spanish.

"Dammit, Berto, why aren't you in your pajamas?"

"Can _Cincona_ sleep with me in my bed? _¿Por favor?_"

At the sound of her new name, the puppy formerly known as Sparky/Gigabyte/Emma popped to her feet with a little _yap_, jumped down from the couch, and skittered across the floor into the open arms of her excited new owner. Eliot had promised Parker he'd find the puppy a loving home, and after bonding with Berto that first night and the following day, he'd decided to give her to his nephew. Berto had named her _Cincona_, which meant _cinnamon_ in Spanish, because, with her black fur speckled with shades of brown, "she looks like she fell in _cincona_!"

As the puppy jumped up to lick Berto's face, eliciting a wave of giggles, Matty glared once again at Eliot. The glare hit its mark this time; he was definitely still pissed about that. Maria had been ecstatic that Eliot's "three years' worth of birthday presents" meant he would be a larger part of Berto's life; Matty had groaned at the addition of yet another thing that would whine and pee in places it wasn't supposed to.

"Fine," Matty said to his son. "But bed. Now."

Berto scurried out, _Cincona _chasing after him.

Eliot smirked. "Come on, General. You can command the entire San Lorenzan army, but you can't handle a three-year-old, newborn twins, and a puppy?"

Matty's eyes narrowed. "The army doesn't pee on the floor and chew up my shoes."

"Usually," Juan muttered from behind Eliot.

Eliot laughed, and Juan joined in, as much at the comment as at Matty's reaction: he let loose a deep, heavy, almost adolescent-grade sigh of the same magnitude that Hardison usually reserved for Eliot's most egregious technological mistakes.

"You know," he said. "I never pegged Eliot Spencer as the sentimental type." He pulled out his phone and started typing. "Maria said this would be too mean, but we'll see how she feels about it the first time she has to clean dog shit off the floor."

"What are you doing?" Eliot demanded.

Matty finished with a flourish and held out the phone.

On it was a photo of Eliot, napping on one of the couches in the family room. A sleeping Berto, thumb in his mouth and butt in the air, snuggled on Eliot's chest, and _Cincona,_ also snoozing, sprawled across his legs.

The photo was in a text message that had just been sent to Alec Hardison.

"Dammit, Ramirez!" Eliot lunged for the phone.

Matty yanked it just out of reach with a far too gleeful cackle. "Night, El," he sing-songed, and, with a cavalier wave over his shoulder, he left.

Juan laughed and handed Eliot a cigar and a glass of scotch. Eliot growled, but followed him out the French doors of the family room and into the beautiful, darkening evening.

.

.

.

Eliot found it difficult to stay angry once he stepped out onto the balcony, which boasted a breathtaking view of the grounds and the city not far beyond. Juan lit his cigar and held the lighter so Eliot could do the same. The cool, gentle breeze from the Mediterranean mingled with the day's hot humidity, making for a warm evening that reminded Eliot how much he'd missed San Lorenzo itself. He breathed in the sea air and felt a sense of calm wash over him. San Lorenzo was a beautiful country. A great place to spend the next two weeks.

"You look … happy." Juan was watching him, a contented smile on his face.

"So do you, Grandpa."

Juan's smile morphed into a joyous grin. "Not only do I have two new little ones to spoil, but they were born into a new era of San Lorenzo. They will grow up in the country I always dreamed of."

Eliot puffed silently on his cigar. He hadn't thought anything could possibly best the light-hearted happiness he'd felt at Berto's innocent giggles of excitement, but visiting Maria and the babies in the hospital that day had done it. Maria had insisted he hold the twins for at least a few minutes, and so he'd been presented with the two purest, most precious little creatures he'd ever laid eyes on.

He hadn't been able to tell them apart; all babies looked the same to Eliot, and it didn't help that Maria insisted on dressing them in green and yellow because she didn't want "their first interaction with the world to be through stereotyped, gender-specific colors!"

The girl, swathed in a mint green blanket, fidgeted and fussed the entire time Eliot held her — "_La chica_ only wants to make herself heard, like her mama!" Maria said proudly — and she only settled down when she was whisked away to be fed. They'd named her Eva Anita Sophia, Eva after Matty's mother, Anita after Maria's, and Sophia after —

"You've got to be kidding me," Eliot had said.

Maria had been sitting in bed, an attention-starved Berto clutching her desperately. "Everyone is going to be naming their daughters Rebecca now. It'll be the number one name in the country for years. But _my _daughter will have a unique, beautiful name in honor of three brave women —"

"Which you won't be able to explain because no one knows who the hell Sophie Devereaux is," Eliot finished. He didn't have the heart to tell them that Sophie Devereaux wasn't even her real name.

Matty shrugged. "That's not really important. Or the point."

"Consider it our way of thanking her and the rest of your team for everything they did for San Lorenzo," Maria said.

"She's going to be impossible to live with after this," Eliot muttered.

The boy was the opposite of his sister in every way. He just lay there, content in his sunshine yellow blanket and matching hat, big brown eyes wide and staring at Eliot, oblivious to the cries of Eva. After she was taken away, he stayed in Eliot's arms for nearly fifteen minutes, yawning more and more frequently until his little eyes finally drooped closed, his tiny hand wrapped around Eliot's finger.

His name was Peter Eliot.

"After the two matchmakers who made all this possible," Maria said, arm wrapped around Berto and hand intertwined with Matty's as she nursed Eva.

Eliot had no words. He lowered his gaze to little Peter Eliot, whose sleeping face was obscured by tears everyone pretended not to notice.

When he was sure he could speak, he did what Pete would have done: he cracked a joke.

"And all this time I thought Pete was telling jokes, not fortunes. I wonder how many other of his wisecracks will turn out to be prophetic."

Everyone laughed. He didn't say anything more, but Maria and Matty seemed to understand.

Juan spoke, bringing Eliot back to the warm Mediterranean evening on the balcony. "You know, they considered naming him Eliot Peter."

Eliot gave an exaggerated grimace. "The son of the future first female president of San Lorenzo" — they exchanged a smile at that; Eliot had no doubt about how far Maria would go — "is already going to stand out from everyone, including his siblings, because he has two American-sounding names. If the poor kid went by Eliot, he'd get beat up on the playground every day."

Juan raised an eyebrow. "Did you?"

"How do you think I learned to fight?" Eliot said with a smirk.

Juan rewarded the remark with a gentle smile that seemed to indicate he read the truth behind Eliot's statement. He took a sip from his scotch and brought his cigar to his lips, regarding the beautiful view in silence.

"Don't think I didn't notice your deft deflection, Commander," he said after a bit. Smoke followed the words from his mouth. "You seem happy. Relaxed."

"Seemed more like an observation than something that needed a response."

Juan narrowed his eyes; the man knew him too well.

"So why are you avoiding the topic? Is it about the photo?"

Eliot blew out a short, smoky breath. "I'm never going to hear the end of that one, am I?"

"Why does it bother you?"

"Because Hardison and the team will make a big deal of it, and it's not."

"Isn't it?"

Eliot didn't answer.

"In all the time I've known you, I've never seen you sleep," Juan said. "You would come over for dinner, and inevitably Maria or Matty or Pete would fall asleep after a long evening, but you never did. And I know you haven't slept much this week." He stared into the night, puffing on his cigar. "And today I walked in to check on you and Berto, and there you were, _napping_. With a toddler on your chest and your back to the door. They might poke fun, but if your team knows you as well as I think they do, they'll see the importance of that photo." He turned to face Eliot. "You have every right to be happy and relaxed. I think you've earned it. Promise me you'll try to enjoy yourself and stop worrying."

Eliot gave a small chuckle. Juan knew him too damned well. "I'll try, sir."

Juan nodded. "Did you get that message from Hardison?"

"What message?"

Juan avoided his gaze, a little sheepish. "When you were sleeping, your phone buzzed, and I checked it to make sure it wasn't anything important. Was it? Something about accounts being set up."

Next time Eliot saw Hardison, he'd finally swallow his pride and risk the hacker's wrath in order to password protect his phone, which he'd been trying to figure out on his own for months.

"Three accounts, he said, under the names you'd sent him, ready to receive deposits." Juan seemed to be intently focused on his scotch, but Eliot knew he was anything but. "What does that mean?"

Eliot sighed. The jig was up, anyway. "I asked Hardison to set up a trust fund for each of the kids. For college or whatever. They can't access it until they turn eighteen."

Juan raised an eyebrow. "How much?"

"A million U.S."

Juan whistled. "Divided three ways, that's a little more than three hundred thousand each. That should pay for college and then some."

Eliot shook his head. "No. A million _each_."

Juan's jaw dropped. "Eliot Spencer, how on earth do you have access to that much money?" His expression darkened. "Is it stolen?"

Eliot winced. This was one of the reasons he hadn't wanted to tell anyone. "Not exactly. It's just … not entirely legally obtained. Unless you consider insider trading stealing."

Juan opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again a second later with a shake of his head. "No. I don't want to know. But, can you afford it?"

Eliot smiled. Juan was prepared to overlook illegally obtained funds, but not Eliot giving away all his money. "I'll be fine."

Juan nodded, appeased. "Maria and Matty will never accept that."

"Which is why the money isn't in their names and isn't accessible until the kids turn eighteen." Eliot gave Juan a discerning look. "Can you keep a secret, sir?"

Juan grinned. "For my grandbabies, I think I can manage."

They settled into a long, comfortable silence, sipping scotch, smoking cigars, watching the remaining sunlight fade into darkness, which revealed more stars than Eliot had seen in a long time.

"Thank you."

Juan spoke so quietly Eliot almost missed it. Eliot turned to him and saw only his dim profile in the light coming from the house. Juan was looking out over the beautiful evening.

"For what?" Eliot asked.

Juan didn't move or speak for several seconds, and when he did it was only to bring his glass to his lips.

"For everything." Again, Juan's voice was almost inaudible. Then he cleared his throat and spoke a little more loudly. "I know that the real reason you returned to San Lorenzo after all this time was because I was arrested. You and your team defeating Moreau was merely a means to an end."

Eliot turned away. "It was my fault."

"It was not," Juan said sternly. "I understood the risk I was taking. And I know that you'd have done the same even if you hadn't felt responsible."

Eliot saw the end of Juan's cigar burn bright red as he took a drag, held the smoke in his mouth, and exhaled it again a dozen seconds later.

"You returned to save me. Again." The words were ragged.

Eliot took a painful swallow of scotch and prepared to speak.

"And please do not belittle it by insisting it doesn't count, or only counts as a half." Juan's voice had a sharp, almost raw edge to it as he seemed to read Eliot's thoughts. "What you've done is worth more to me than some dismissive, pithy remark."

Eliot's stomach became a fist, clenching in guilt. "Sir, I never meant to —"

"I know." Juan's tone softened. "I just wish you could see your decision to disobey Moreau, which effectively signed your death warrant, as the courageous act that it was, and one that saved my life."

Eliot sighed. "And I wish you could see that for me, choosing not to kill you is not the same as saving your life."

Juan brought his glass to his mouth, took a long drink, and lowered it to the railing of the balcony again. "That is what you have never understood. It wasn't your choice not to kill me that saved me."

Eliot blinked. "What?"

The red light of Juan's cigar shook in the darkness as he brought the other end to his mouth, and his entire outline seemed to stiffen. He didn't speak for nearly a minute.

When he finally did, his tone was normal. Conversational. "Matty said that Parker and Hardison gave Moreau's gold bars to Our Lady of Good Counsel orphanage. That was incredibly generous of them."

Eliot had no clue where this was going, or how it was connected to what Juan had said just a moment before, but he didn't interrupt with an impertinent question. "Yeah. You have no idea how big a deal it was for Parker to do that. She loves gold. Like, a creepy amount."

He gave a forced chuckle. Juan didn't show any signs of laughter.

"He also said you seemed surprised to discover I was an orphan," Juan said. "I didn't intentionally keep it from you. I just don't, as a rule, bring it up in normal discussion. But I never knew my parents. I was raised by the Felician nuns who ran, and still run, the orphanage."

Juan paused to savor the smoke of his cigar and continued. "It seems counter-intuitive, but it's quite lonely growing up in an orphanage. I never knew what it was like to have a family. So as I grew up, my friends became my family. I met Enzo when we started school — we became best friends right away. Eva came to the orphanage when I was ten. She … well, she was not unlike Parker in many ways. She had a horrible, abusive past, and it affected her for the rest of her life. I decided to take care of her, like the little sister I never had."

Eliot remembered how understanding Matty, Maria, and Juan had been around Parker, and wondered if that had to do with Matty's mother.

"When we entered secondary school, Raul joined our little family." Juan's tone dimmed at the mention of Colonel Raul Escobar. "And after we graduated and I'd been in the military for a few years, I met and married Anita." An audible smile banished the gloom, and his voice became even brighter than before. "Enzo, Raul, and I rose in the ranks and became leaders in the military of the new, independent San Lorenzo, and Anita served a term in the new parliament. We helped to bring democracy, slowly but surely, to the people, and our little family started to grow. Berto came, and Matty soon after, and then Maria a few years later. I finally had the family I'd always dreamed of as a child."

Eliot's heart ached with the knowledge of what came next.

"Until Damien Moreau came to power." Juan's entire demeanor changed. His voice lowered in pitch and volume, and his shoulders seemed to slump. "Enzo was a brilliant tactician, and he always insisted on leading his men. But we didn't realize we were fighting a different type of war. He and his men were ambushed, and, true to fashion, Enzo made sure they all returned alive. But he sacrificed his life doing it."

Juan took several long puffs from his cigar. When he continued, Eliot was surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "Enzo was Eva's rock, helping her cope with everything she'd been through in her life, and suddenly he was gone. She died not long after."

Before he could stop it, pain at the imagined loss of one of his team flashed across Eliot's thoughts. Unlike usual, though — imagining the death of someone he cared for was not an uncommon occurrence for Eliot — he ached, not for himself, but at the thought of Parker's reaction. If something happened to Hardison or the any of the rest of them, would she break like Eva Ramirez had?

"I'd never known such pain and loss." The calm acceptance of Juan's tone belied his words. "I'd finally built a family, finally understood the love and belonging, when two of the people I'd known and loved the longest were ripped from me so soon after one another."

Eliot's throat constricted. He couldn't fathom the strength Juan possessed to speak of those melancholy memories with such tranquility. Hell, he could barely speak Pete's name without having a nervous breakdown or being severely intoxicated. Or both.

"And if that wasn't difficult enough,Anita and Isuddenly found ourselves withcustody of an angry, confused, grieving eleven-year-old boy." Only a suddenly tense pause gave any indication that Juan was affected by his own words. "It is … difficult, trying to father the son of your best friend after his death. Especially when, in one of the darker moments, that lonely, grieving little boy accuses you of trying to replace his father, blames you for his father's death, wishes you had died instead, and assures you that he hates you and always will. And what hurts the most is how much he reminds you of his father when he says it."

Juan's voice shook at the end, and Eliot finally realized how deep the problems of Juan and Matty's relationship ran. He'd thought they'd begun with his own arrival, or even Berto's death, but they'd actually been simmering for more than a decade prior. It was a testament to both men that their current relationship was one of hard-earned and genuine admiration, respect, and love.

"Raising Matty was one of the most difficult challenges of my life, and I am so proud of the man he's become." Juan's words were thick with a mixture of emotions, grief and pride foremost among them. "I only hope that Enzo, wherever he is, feels the same."

Eliot cleared his throat, determined to provide Juan with the encouragement and assurance Juan had always given him. "Matty is a good, kind, honest man. That's because of you. I think Enzo would be proud of you both, and grateful to you for everything you've done for his son."

Some of the tension leeched from Juan.

"_Gracias_," he said softly.

He took a deep breath, and Eliot expected his words to tumble out, eager to make their point. Instead, Juan spoke slowly and deliberately, like he was delaying the inevitable.

"In spite of all that, my family managed. We survived and even thrived, and before I knew it, the boys and Maria were all grown up." He smiled, though it was forced, and spoke to Eliot as though conveying a secret. "That's something they don't tell you about children — one moment you're holding the in the hospital, and in the blink of an eye, they're grown men joining the army. And then —"

Juan exhaled a shaky breath that seemed to be trying hard not to be a sob. He fell silent for several seconds, during which he puffed on his trembling cigar.

"The worst day of my life was the day my little boy returned from a mission with a hole in his head."

The sheer agony in Juan's voice caused the beautiful San Lorenzan evening to blur in front of Eliot's eyes.

"They say the pain of losing a child is unlike any other. I wouldn't know." The agony dissolved into a distant numbness. "I never felt anything. It was like my heart just … vanished. And in its place was a vast emptiness that I knew could never, ever be filled again. I didn't get angry. I didn't feel any hatred toward Moreau or the men who'd killed him. I didn't even cry. My child died horrifically, and I didn't even cry."

The emptiness in Eliot's own chest swelled in empathetic pain. Oh, how he understood.

"I did question," said Juan. "In a detached sort of way. Children are supposed to outlive their parents. What happened was wrong. I'd survived decades of fighting. How was it that my boy couldn't even make it five years? That was when I started to blame myself, but again, not in an aggressive way. Berto and I had argued several months before about strategy. He insisted we couldn't win by only fighting to protect people; we had to fight back, and not just with guns. He'd never liked the rigidity of the military, and he told me he wanted to enter politics, to win the hearts of the people. But I'd been doing this for several decades. I knew better. I called him naive." His voice softened to a whisper. "After that, he stopped fighting me about it and followed my every order."

Juan smashed the nub of his cigar into the railing and hurled it into the night, and his tone grew harsh. "What kind of father teaches his child to love a doomed country; raises him, by word and example, to want to fight for her; and in the end not only fails to protect him from the dangers of that devotion, but even places him in harm's way against his wishes? What kind of general sends boys — children — to fight his impossible war? What kind of man fights for his entire life and sacrifices his child for a pipe dream, and still can't accomplish his goal?"

Eliot gripped the railing for support. Hearing Juan, the man who'd saved him, who had given him strength when he'd needed it, talk in such a way about himself was almost beyond bearing.

"I ceased to be a good general. I just couldn't force myself to send other men's sons to their deaths. And my family …" Juan brought his glass to his mouth and took a long, slow drink from it. The angle of the glass's tilt told Eliot that he'd emptied it. "When Maria wasn't in her room or crying into her dinner, she was struggling with her studies. Anita planned the funeral all by herself and kept the house, and some of the more bureaucratic aspects of the military, from falling to pieces in my absence. But at least I only avoided them. I was downright cruel to Matty. As he'd grown older, he resembled Enzo. Now, he not only reminded me of my late friend, but it felt like God was shoving him in my face as a reminder that I couldn't save my own son. Sometimes it was just easier to pretend he didn't exist. Even when we were in the same room, participating in the same conversation."

His voice broke, and so did Eliot's heart. It was telling, he thought, that it was the confession of his treatment of Matty that had finally pushed Juan past the edge of steadfast emotional control.

But General Flores gathered himself once again and continued after only a moment. "Eventually I just stopped caring. I couldn't save my baby boy, and I was losing a war and my family at the same time. What was the point?"

Placing his empty glass on the railing, Juan turned to Eliot for the first time since he'd begun his story. Eliot saw, through the light from the French doors, fresh tear tracks on the man's cheeks.

"That was when you broke down my door, Eliot. I wasn't lying when I told you that I was prepared to die. I hoped you would do it. I felt that it would be ... better."

Eliot swayed with the force of that revelation. He hadn't known Juan had been so hopelessly heartsick. Juan's words from the day of Pete's death came back to him.

"_He wanted to die, Eliot."_

Had Juan been talking about himself as much as Pete?

Juan's eyes closed, but though they opened again almost immediately, they couldn't have been more different. The despair had been replaced by a fire, not unlike the one that always burned in Maria's eyes.

"And then you hesitated. I watched you physically struggle with the decision. I saw you battle your inner demons, and I stared in awe as you beat them. You, a man for whom I'd only ever felt loathing and disgust, had decided to do the right thing. That's when I knew that my job wasn't done yet. I had a purpose again. I finally understood what Berto always had — that the military needed to do more than be on the defensive. We needed to strike back, and the fights wouldn't always be on the battlefield. The tide started to turn when you agreed to give us information, and we began to attack in addition to defending. I remembered how to be a good husband, a loving father to Maria — and, eventually, to Matty. And I started to help you be the best man you could be. When you outed Raul and brought Berto's killer to justice, I knew without a doubt that I had made the right choice."

His brow furrowed, and he took Eliot by the arms. His hold was desperate but gentle, unsteady but strong.

"You told me once that you wished you'd been able to meet Berto because you thought he could have convinced you to leave Moreau sooner. But I believe with all my heart that my son arranged for you to kill me in order to save us both."

Eliot's eyes filled with tears, and despite his best efforts to contain them, they rolled down his cheeks. All this time he'd thought he owed Juan a debt that could never be repaid, and Juan had felt exactly the same way.

His thoughts strayed again to the day Pete had died.

"_Eliot, until you came to us, Pete shut everyone out. Then after what happened with Escobar, he latched onto you. He opened up, came out of his shell. He was a completely different Pete than we'd known before."_

Whether he'd intended to or not, Juan had been describing himself. Until the end.

"_Pete never recovered from losing Sarah. Not even with your help. And he was never going to."_

Unlike Pete, Juan had recovered. Eliot had saved Juan just like Juan had saved him.

Juan took a deep breath and sighed with what sounded like intense relief. "In the years since you left, I have regretted that I never told you just how much you had done for me. And now you're here, and you saved me yet again. Anita's been telling me I need to talk with you."

The mother-daughter resemblance was becoming more and more apparent. The Flores women knew what was what.

Juan chuckled. Eliot could hear the lightness in it, and it made him smile.

But he didn't know how to respond to Juan's revelation. How could he repay such openness?

With the truth.

"I don't — I —" His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes, turning away when he realized Juan could probably see his tears.

"Thank you," he whispered. "From you, that means …" He frowned. What did it mean? "Everything. Because you saved me, too, sir. From … myself."

Juan placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know. And it's only in the years you've been gone that I came to realize that the reason you insisted on arguing about halves was because you didn't understand. You thought you could never repay me, but you already had."

Fresh tears escaped, and Eliot tried to wipe them surreptitiously.

Juan's hand squeezed his shoulder gently. "I am so proud of you."

Eliot inhaled sharply and spun to face Juan, whose smile was so loving it brought more tears to Eliot's eyes.

"Even after — ?" He'd done so many horrible things, and just last week …

"Even after."

"You're not — ?"

Juan's expression flashed briefly with pain. "How can you still think I could be disappointed? The only thing that disappoints me is that you would ever think I'd be disappointed in you. I could never be disappointed in any of my children."

Eliot felt his eyes widen.

"Eliot." Juan grabbed him by the arms, in that hold that Eliot loved, and pulled him close. "It isn't possible for someone to save me the way you did, and me not love them like family in return."

Damn the man. How could Eliot keep his emotions under control when Juan kept saying things like that? He let out a tiny sob and catapulted past boy-crying.

Juan placed a hand on his cheek. "I am proud of you, Eliot Spencer. I know that's difficult for you to believe, but I have always been able to see the good in you. And I think you're finally starting to see it, too, thanks to your new family. With them, you are doing more good than I ever imagined possible, and I hope that someday you'll be able to see yourself the way your team and I see you — as a good man who has done some not-so-good things. I have always believed that you are your own worst punishment. I just hope that someday you'll realize you've been punished enough."

Eliot hoped so, too.

"Thank you, sir," was all he managed to say.

"And thank you, _mijo_."

Juan pulled him into a hug, which they held for a long time.

"If you like," Juan said into Eliot's shoulder. "You can continue to make the 'half' joke. I only wanted you to know that as far as I'm concerned —"

"We're even," Eliot said softly.

Juan made a small hiccuping noise. "Yes."

They stayed that way for a while longer, each comfortable in the arms of the man who had saved him.

Then Eliot's phone rang.

They both started, and, much to Eliot's chagrin, Juan pulled away. Eliot didn't make a move to answer the phone.

"Are you going to get that?" Juan asked.

Eliot sighed. He checked the caller I.D.

It was Hardison.

"It might be important," said Juan.

"Yeah, I bet it is," Eliot grumbled. He answered the call with a snapped, "What?"

Juan frowned at that, so Eliot turned away from him.

"Hey man, listen," Hardison rattled off. "I know it's late there, but it's damned early here, so maybe don't be so rude, okay? Not like I want to be making phone calls right now. I just got home and planned to sleep for days —"

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hardison, get to the point."

"Okay, but first I want to say that I'm just the messenger, so if you're gonna Hulk out, it should really be at Nate, not at me, and —"

"Hardison," Eliot said through gritted teeth.

The hacker took a deep breath. "Nate's got a job for us. In Alaska. He wants us to meet in Boston tomorrow and fly to Alaska the day after."

"Dammit, Hardison! We said two weeks!"

"I'm just the messenger! The messenger!"

Eliot felt a growl begin to rumble in his throat. "Right. The sender and I are going to have a little talk."

"Do what you want as long as it doesn't involve me, but he was pretty insistent. Oh!" Hardison's voice brightened a few kilowatts. "I just got the most interesting text from Matty. You are so —"

Eliot hung up before he heard what he was "so."

"Problem?" Juan asked. He had brought out a bottle of scotch and was pouring them both fresh glasses and cutting the ends off two new cigars.

Eliot dialed a number and raised the phone to his ear. "Everything's just peachy."

"I can see that."

He shot Juan a glare over his shoulder as he turned away to speak again. He didn't have to. Nate's phone went to voicemail.

"Dammit." He punched the screen harder than was necessary and sent a text.

_From Eliot Spencer: Fuck off. We said two weeks._

Juan spoke, reading the text over Eliot's shoulder. "You should be kinder to him."

"Kinder?" Eliot's jaw dropped. "The man's an egomaniacal, workaholic, alcoholic control-freak. We agreed to lie low. You have no idea the types of things he's done that put the team at risk —"

"And you have no idea of the kind of pain he's in." Juan's tone was softly stern.

Eliot froze. "He told you?"

Juan shook his head. "It's not something you share. But there were a few children at the celebration the other night, and I could tell by the way he looked at them …" He broke off. "The pain will never fade, but you and your team are helping him heal by giving him the same gift that you gave me."

Eliot's anger faltered, and his guilt flared up again.

His phone beeped.

_From Nate Ford: This job can't wait._

Eliot sighed. Be kinder, he reminded himself.

_From Eliot Spencer: Promised my nephew I'd take him to the park tomorrow. You want to disappoint a 3yo? We said 2 wks._

Juan handed Eliot a scotch. They both lit their new cigars — Eliot's original one had long since burned to a nub.

They drank and puffed. Eliot tried to focus on the sweet flavor of the cigar smoke, but he was too tense to enjoy it.

After a century and a half, his phone beeped.

_From Nate Ford: Meet us in AK day after tomorrow._

Eliot slammed his glass down a little too hard and took a deep breath, readying himself for a rant.

Then his phone beeped again.

_From Nate Ford: This job's tricky. We need you on this one, Eliot._

If Nate was calling it tricky, that meant it was practically impossible. And Nate would do the job with or without him, which meant the team could be in serious danger.

But he'd promised to spend two weeks catching up with the Floreses.

"Go," said Juan. His smile showed only the barest hint of disappointment, which made Eliot's heart ache.

"No," Eliot said, starting to type an answer. He wouldn't do this to Juan. Not after everything he'd confessed tonight.

"How many times has Nate Ford told you he needs you?"

Eliot's fingers froze over the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Juan's smile widen.

"Go. Do good. Your new family needs you. Your old one can wait."

Eliot closed his eyes and cursed Nate Ford.

_From Eliot Spencer: OK. AK in two days._

Juan picked up Eliot's glass and handed it to him.

The phone beeped.

_From Nate Ford: Say hi to your nephew for me. Cute pic._

Eliot groaned. Damn Matty and Hardison and the rest of those thieves.

Juan chuckled. "Tell me how you first met them."

A smile came to Eliot's lips, unbidden. He hated them. And he loved them.

Guess that's what family was.

So he told Juan about getting a call from Victor Dubenich. He'd have tonight and most of tomorrow to spend with the Floreses.

And when he got to Alaska — seriously, fucking Alaska? — he was going to kill Nate.

_The End_

* * *

_Pete, Matty, Maria, Juan, and the San Lorenzo company will return in _The Adventures of Eliot and Pete_, a series of one-shots in which Eliot's exploits with the team remind him of the good times in San Lorenzo with his best friend Pete Rodriguez. The first of these, _Spaghetti_, will be published in the next couple weeks, so stay tuned!_

_Matty, Maria, and the kids may return, if I can get the idea to coalesce, in an as-yet unnamed job (working title: _The Matty and Maria Job_) that takes place in season 4. Maria, Matty, and the kids visit Boston on vacation and get caught up in one of the team's jobs. A reluctant Matty must learn to grift as a Damien Moreau-like villain, coached by Sophie and Maria. Nate tries to cope with three children running around his apartment under the care of Parker and Hardison, and Eliot attempts to maintain what's left of his sanity._

_The post-REDUX San Lorenzo crew will return in _The Second Wedding Job_, once my girl quirky finishes its prequel!_


End file.
